The Inferno of Angels
by Angel of Mystery-145
Summary: 19th century - She came to him with a request. He offered her a challenge. Now each must face their demons in a future that will mark them and shape their lives - only to bring them into the inferno once more. A coming of age story for Christine & Erik. romance/angst - E/C - eventually will be rated M
1. Chapter 1

**A strident plea. A quiet accusation. On these do two lives spin.**

 **She must forge a new path, alone and afraid. He vows in silence ever to be near her...**

 **xxx**

 **Borrowed from ALW's PotO - I don't own the characters, only the original road they travel in the plot I create, and any unknown passersby they meet along the way...** **The usual caveats apply - eventually may be** **rated M** **for sexual situations later in story** **. This is a more traditional look at the beloved tale we know so well, something of a coming of age story for both our main characters, and something I've wanted to try my hand at for awhile now. And so, with nothing more to preface, I now submit to the Phantom's order of silence, as I give to you...**

* * *

 **Chapter I**

.

Billows of red and orange fire exploded to the black heavens like dragon's breath, the unseen monster bent on devouring the musical sanctuary she had known since childhood. Horrified cries and the anxious shouts of people in the streets faded a little more with each slow turn of the heavy iron wheels. The further the closed coach escaped into the still, silent darkness, the heavier her despair, until at last she could take no more.

"Stop…" she whispered, the audible sound of her quiet plea fully alerting her to the need to act. She spoke more firmly, lurching forward in her seat, "Stop – **_please_** ** _stop_** _!_ "

Safety could be found in retreat, but the whispers in her mind bred only misgiving.

 _This is all wrong…_

 _All wrong._

She pounded the signal to the driver against the roof three times with her fist, ignoring the burning throb to her flesh. At last the coach rolled to a stop.

"Christine – darling! Whatever is the matter?"

Terrified by her sudden lapse from docile obedience into raging madwoman, Raoul reached for and clasped her hands. It was then that he saw what she had tried to keep hidden.

"Your ring. Where is the ring I gave you?"

 _A secret engagement – look, your future bride…_

She shook her head, stemming another onslaught of tears as she attempted to pull her hands from his. "I – left it behind."

A momentary flash of anger crossed his face that she would be so careless, the token of his pledge to her worth a small fortune. The anger just as quickly died when he recalled all she'd been made to suffer at that fiend's hands.

"Never mind, my dear. I shall buy you another –"

"No, Raoul. I cannot do this." Snatching her hands free from his with a jerk, she buried them against her face and sobbed. "I cannot!"

 _And the Angel of Music sings songs in my head … the Angel of Music sings songs in my head…_

"Lotte, what is wrong with you?" His voice held a hint of disgust. "We _escaped_ that madman. Miraculously he let us _both live_ and set you _free_. We should be **_rejoicing_**."

Rather than encourage her, his words heaped burning coals of shame onto her traitorous head. She reached for the handle to the door. "I cannot do this!"

"Christine!"

She wrenched her arm from his sudden fearful hold and practically fell out of the vehicle, barely righting herself before taking a tumble, thanks to her years in learning to dance. The stones felt cold and solid beneath her bare feet. Strange, when the world felt as if it was leaning precariously to the side and she would topple off its edge at any moment...

The sight of a woman in a bedraggled satin and lace wedding dress drew no more than brief glimpses from the scattered crowd when a fiery inferno raged so close, bent on destroying one of the most prominent buildings in Paris.

She held to her full skirts, damp from the lake and clinging to her bare legs. She only made it a few steps before she felt Raoul's hand grab her arm.

"Christine - what is this madness?!"

"I cannot go with you," she said, shaking her head. "Please, don't make me!"

" _Make_ you?" His boyish, handsome features, smudged by smoke, grew wounded. I thought you loved me. We are to be married. We no longer need to keep our engagement a secret. You must not fear being seen in my company any longer…"

"Please, Raoul, I don't know what the future holds any longer. Don't ask this of me right now! I love you, I do – but I _cannot endure this_."

She looked toward the burning monolith, her heart crumbling when another rooftop window blew out with the force of the blaze. How could a fire from a fallen chandelier create such massive destruction in so short a time? She gasped, again numbly walking forward at the horrendous sight of her home of ten years being destroyed before her eyes.

"It's _him_ , isn't it? That murdering beast." His voice was ugly. "I saw the manner in which you kissed him…"

And with his accusation, a little piece of her soul died.

"I must find Madame Giry," she insisted. "She doesn't know I left and will be concerned for my welfare. And Meg – I need to find her and see that she's alright."

"Madame Giry knows I went in search of you. She showed me the way to the beast's lair." His voice again attempted to placate her, even as he put his arm around her shoulders to steer her back to the waiting coach. "It's alright, darling. We can send a servant to inquire in the morning, and tomorrow you may visit Madame and your friend if you wish it. You're only distraught. Small wonder with what you were made to endure from that monster. We must leave this place and go home so you can rest…"

Home. _His_ home. The de Chagny estate. Into her beleaguered mind whirled the image of the Comtesse de Chagny's pale azure eyes glittering with disapproval during Christine's first and last visit to the manor. Those words of censure delivered in a well-modulated, supercilious tone the titled nobility used to criticize those below their standing, all said in a private chamber to Christine.

She did not fit. She did not belong. She would never belong…

Unbidden, another memory scorched her thoughts –

A stage. A song. Her walk across a bridge suspended high in midair…

She should not have belonged there either, but those forbidden moments with her Angel had felt more real to her than all the last weeks of make-believe with her fiancé.

"I can't," she whispered and stopped walking again, pulling away from him. "Please understand. My place is here, with the others."

"Christine, what are you saying?"

"I can't go with you to your family estate, Raoul." She shook her head in frustration, feeling as if her words were spinning round and round, finding no secure destination. "I need to stay here. Please go home. I'll be alright."

Choices – could he not give her at least one?

 _He_ had given her a choice, which had been no true choice at all. And in the end, he had wrested that choice away, making the decision for her.

Domination. Control. Two men of great power, both manipulating her every breath. _What choice was there?_ Stay, live. Go, die. Destroy one man. Tear asunder the soul. Destroy both men. Rip out her heart. To stay would reap madness – to go would devastate all of them. Either way she would lose – no victory true or lasting.

In the end there was only death. And pain. A gut-wrenching pain that tore through to the nethermost fibers of her being.

"Please, don't…" she begged.

She held up her hands to ward him off while walking in slow retreat from him. She could not deal with this now – how is it that he could not understand?

"Christine – _wait_." He again grabbed her arm above the elbow, this time moving with her toward the burning Opera House. "I cannot let you walk alone into the thick of this maddened crowd. I'll help you find Madame Giry, if that is truly what you wish."

His manner was terse but resigned. Christine knew it was no use to resist when his jaw got that stubborn set to it, but soon she felt grateful for his obdurate authority. The closer they came to the front courtyard, the denser and more panicked the crowds grew. Despite the absence of his black evening coat and soiled appearance, Raoul was a silent force to be reckoned with and easily parted the way with his authoritarian orders to move.

Mass destruction bred panic. Looters shattered the glass display windows of closed shops all around them, pillaging their goods. Pickpockets scuttled from their holes like rats, as one heavy gentlemen in black tails chased a nimble beggar boy who robbed him. All around the lower crust of Paris gathered on the streets to watch with morbid curiosity while the upper echelon of society tended their terrified and their wounded. Gowns of velvet and satin made a dull shimmer in the night like so many discarded jewels lying on the gray pavestones, soot-coated and in ruins. Christine turned her head to see an elderly woman in torn russet velvet, lying unconscious on the ground in her escort's arms as another man pressed a cloth to the angry gash in her forehead while a woman patted her gloved hand, trying to revive her. All around Christine, the image of suffering was repeated a hundredfold.

 _I did this. I could have stopped it. I am to blame._

And what of him? What happened to him?

 _I am to blame for that too._

No, not all of it. She did not cut the rope or bring down the chandelier.

She did not throw everything that mattered away…

Or did she?

In the haze that was her mind, she felt bludgeoned by silent accusation, the harsh truths falling like blows to her heart. While a part of her soul felt strangely disassociated from the madness.

She still did not understand all of what happened. The night had raced by too fast for lucid comprehension. One moment, she made a choice – she thought. The next moment it was torn from her to be replayed below ground in a battle between life and death, with no one coming out the victor.

"Help has arrived. At last."

Christine barely heard Raoul's muttered words over the horrendous crackle of flames and the whimpers of theater patrons near where she stood. She looked toward the front of the Opera House, relieved to see that the _Sapeurs-Pompiers_ , easily distinguishable in the night by their gold metal helmets, had finally arrived. Yet with how uncontrollable the fiery inferno raged, they would need an entire lake from which to manually pump and extinguish the blaze.

Her thoughts twisted to the dark caverns and the underground lake that was to one man a prison…

Where a kiss had won her freedom…

If this suffocation strangling her heart could be called liberty.

"Christine –" Raoul's voice coming near her ear startled her to the present. "Over there."

She looked to where he pointed. At the front of the throng, her headmistress and guardian held one of the littlest ballet rats who gathered round her by the shoulders, bending to speak to her. All of the younger girls stood terrified in their long white nightdresses, like innocent lambs, while the older dancers involved in the opera still wore their harlot costumes.

Relief poured off Christine in waves.

"Mother Giry!" she hurried forward, calling out the childhood endearment she had not used since she was small. Her guardian turned in surprise, her face covered with soot, her manner weary, as most of the victims appeared. Her pale eyes lit up at the sight of Christine.

"My dear girl!" Christine was enfolded in a rare and warm embrace before her instructor's demeanor became commanding again. "But why did you come back? I would have thought you would be miles from this horror by now." Her curious eyes looked toward the Vicomte standing a short distance behind Christine.

"I had to – and Meg? Is she alright?"

Her instructor nodded. "She is helping others from the chorus bring supplies from the dormitories."

"It is safe to go inside?" Christine asked in disbelief.

The wing where the dancers lived was set apart from the opera house but still connected by a narrow corridor made of mortar and stone.

"The fire has not reached there and does not appear that it will, _Dieu merci,_ though we did rouse the children as you can see."

She also was thankful to God for sparing the little ones. "And what of the rest, Madame. Did _everyone_ make it out?" Her eyes beseeched her with what she could not say in present company.

Madame's steady expression revealed the knowledge of what Christine truly asked. "I cannot say, as I do not know."

"Raoul? Raoul de Chagny!" A man's voice bordered between panic and relief, coming from the right. "Good God, it is you!"

A young man, his black tail coat missing, his white bow tie askew and hanging against a shirtfront that was once pristine and now bore streaks of black came up to Raoul, ignoring the two women. "It's Frances. She's hurt badly, her leg was twisted and trounced upon in the stampede to leave the building, and blast if I cannot find the couple with whom we arrived. Can you lend a hand? I must get her home and send a messenger for the family physician. I shall never forgive myself if she loses the child…"

To speak of such delicate matters in public and among strangers was unheard of for men of their station, testimony of just how upset and frightened this poor woman's husband was.

"I'll be alright," Christine hastily assured Raoul when he looked at her in indecision. "Go and help your friends."

Madame nodded in reassurance. "I will see to her care, monsieur."

Raoul looked from his friend to Christine then stepped forward, squeezing her hands. "I will return soon."

"No, don't." At his surprise, she hastened to add, "You should get some rest too. The dormitories are safe, Madame said so. I need to stay. They need me here."

His lips thinned and he hesitated a terse moment, but at last gave a curt nod and moved away. "My coach is waiting near the Rue Scribe," he addressed his terrified friend. "We will never get it through this crowd. Take Frances there. I'll have my driver bring the coach as close as possible…"

His abrupt words to his friend faded as Christine turned her back to him. She suddenly felt weak and uncertain, the tragic events of the night and her sole intake of a meager breakfast causing her to tremble.

Forcing her mind to leave the fifth cellar, just as her body had done, she began to assist Madame Giry with the young ballet rats, trying to calm their tears at being so harshly awakened from their beds to see hell swallow their home. The towering furnace before her did not ward off the chill winter wind at her back and she shivered often, rubbing her bare arms. She jumped in surprise when a rough, woolen coat was laid over her shoulders and she looked up to see the kind, old doorman, Gaston, who as far back as she could remember always had a licorice drop in his pocket to spare for a young ballet rat. With his white beard and ruddy cheeks, many of the little ones whispered that he must be Saint Nicholas in disguise.

"Merci," she squeezed his gnarled hand.

"I would not wish you catch a chill, mademoiselle," he said gruffly in embarrassment, and moved away to help the other men.

Her young peers had giggled about his presumed identity and whispered in fright about the fearsome Opera Ghost. While Christine at their age had remained distant from their wild tales, enraptured by the presence of an angel…

An Angel who had fallen from his pinnacle and brought down a corner of hell.

How quickly childhood dreams could prove false and die - though the Phantom of the Opera had certainly lived up to his name and reputation. Horrified anger at what he'd done warred with fearful concern for his welfare – a never-ending battle since she had left him less than an hour ago and emerged from the depths of his icy dungeon into the fire that devastated her world …

"Christine!"

Wiping away the stream of her tears, Christine turned in relief at the sound of her name and ran to embrace her dearest friend.

"Meg, thank God you're safe!"

"And you, Christine, are you alright?" Meg's eyes widened in stunned surprise as she pulled away. "Is that a _wedding gown_?"

Christine's eyes filled with moisture at her words. "Oh, Meg. It was so horrible…"

Meg pulled Christine away, toward the fringes of the crowd. In as few sentences as possible, lifting her voice only loud enough so that she could be heard over the monstrous roar of the inferno, Christine gave Meg a truncated version of the frenzied three-way encounter she'd been forced to endure beneath the earth.

"I left him there, Meg. I went back to him after he ordered me to go, and, and –I thought he might…but he didn't …" Her throat choked on the final, seditious words, unable to give them voice.

Meg's expression was grim. "Christine, after all the destruction he's caused, surely you don't still care what happens to him? He is evil incarnate!"

Christine drew her brows together at Meg's angry words, her face also twisting into a scowl. "You weren't there, Meg. You couldn't possibly know what it was like."

"No, I suppose not. But what of the Vicomte? He's good and he's kind. Surely you care about him more than the Phantom?"

"I no longer know what I feel about anything."

Even as she said the words, she knew them to be untrue. A kiss made clear what her mind had been sluggish to realize. Reason has been lost somewhere in the fifth cellar, numbed by torrents of shock. She could not make her friend understand when Christine herself failed to find any logic buried within such feelings.

"I went there," Meg said quietly. "I must have arrived after you left, because the mob had not yet arrived –"

"You went to his lair?" Christine grabbed her arm. "And what of him? Was he there?"

"No." Meg regarded her gravely. "But this was lying by a music box."

From the man's shirt she still wore as part of her costume as a lad, Meg pulled out a porcelain half mask.

Christine inhaled sharply, bringing her hand forward like a starved beggar reaching for bread. "Please…" she whispered when Meg instinctively kept hold of it.

After tense seconds, Meg's grip loosened on the white porcelain. Christine grabbed the mask, bringing it close to her bosom. The desperate, telling act erased all trace of her friend's bitterness as compassionate sympathy filled Meg's eyes.

"Oh, Christine. He's a _murderer_ , an arsonist and an extortionist…"

"I know," she cut her off suddenly. "But he was my friend."

Her heart mocked the weak explanation. Lacking sufficient words, she turned her face away to look back at the raging conflagration of a fallen Angel's wrath.

An Angel who was no angel, only a distraught and embittered man.

Such knowledge did not cause her feelings to falter…

If only she could understand the mystery of her heart.

xXx

Miracles were often construed to be from the Blessed Trinity or the deceased saints and regarded with supreme veneration. Such had been the case when a short time after Christine and Meg's reunion, the skies opened up and poured down rain in heavy torrents upon the fires that laid waste to the dying Opera House.

Fairy tales were reverenced by the meek of heart whose lives lacked happiness or had that happiness stolen away. When reality became too harsh to bear, it was easy to believe that an angelic divine being would bend his ear to a frightened child's tearful plea…

Or that the life of a Vicomtesse could be within a chorus girl's grasp.

Yet when the day-to-day ritual of human existence was obliterated by a tragedy of epic proportions, such absurd inconsistencies rapidly melted away to insignificance. Truths shattered the fragility of rosy pretense, shaking the deceived into leaving their world of make believe and forcing them to face cold reality…

It was into that cold reality Christine had been thrust since she dared breach the impasse between student and teacher hours ago.

She lay on her cot in the dormitory, idly fingering the eye hole of his porcelain mask that rested on her stomach as she stared at the low ceiling. The odor of smoke lingered in the air but was not prevalent in this wing, the captain of the _Sapeurs-Pompiers_ having declared the dormitories safe until other living arrangements could be found for the chorus. The main chambers of the Opera House were off limits, however, the theater in ruins.

A multitude of thoughts clouded her head, as obscure as the black smoke that so recently filled the air. Christine was nowhere nearer to sound answers, all possible choices as fragmented as the ribbons of slumber's fading dreams. Yet with blinding clarity, she knew of one thing she must do.

She rose and silently dressed in a serviceable black gown, the wedding dress having been tossed away with the rest of the ruins. Occasional snores from the weary girls covered what little noise she made. Slipping the mask in a small burlap sack and grabbing a lantern, she slipped from the dark chamber and down the winding stairs, making her way outdoors.

Most of the onlookers had long gone home, a few stragglers poking about the charred skeleton of the steaming debris. Tendrils of white smoke rose to the skies but the fires had mostly been extinguished, what little remained finding no sustenance in wet wood and cloth and slowly dying out.

Christine kept her head down but no one paid attention to her slight dark figure as she hurriedly made her way to the gondola she and Raoul left behind hours ago. A light rain began to fall and she grimaced, wishing for the cloak left in her dressing room backstage. Surely it also had been destroyed. Strong muscles hard-earned after more than a decade in the ballet made it possible to pole her way back into the tunnel with little difficulty. Any exhaustion earlier felt was eclipsed by the pounding of nervous anticipation thrumming through her veins.

However, once she reached the portcullis, a cry of dismay left her lips to see the utter devastation wrought by the mob. Candlesticks were toppled, the candles gutted, those still lit and undisturbed casting their glow on overturned tables and broken pottery. Papers of his dedication to the craft of both music and art were strewn callously on the ground and floating in the lake, most of them torn. The organ had been demolished with what appeared to be a battering ram but was likely the tall gold statue of a god lying on its side nearby, and his throne lay half submerged in the shallow end of the lake. Mirrors had been brutally smashed, their shards of reflective glass gleaming with deadly beauty over the stone ground.

Holding her fist to her mouth and biting her finger so as not to scream in renewed anguish she approached the mirror where she had stood only short hours before in wounded fury and informed him the poison was not in his face but in his soul. Drops of blood colored a thin trail between mirrors, the sight of the ghastly dots making her lightheaded with dread.

"Oh, Mon Ange," she whispered, kneeling to touch a blur of dried crimson, "what have I done?"

"You made your choice."

Her eyes widened in startled shock to hear the bitter answer come from behind. Swiftly she stood and whirled around, facing the mirror on the topmost stair where his voice had seemed to resonate. The candles above were unlit and as the tapestry guarding the tallest mirror was quite suddenly wrenched back, it appeared as if shadow detached from shadow in the tall form of a man, who slowly stepped out of the pane of reflection.

Dizzy, she reached a hand to the backing of the mirror nearest her, devoid of glass, the soles of her slippers crunching in the sharp granular fragments.

 _"Dieu merc_ _i,"_ she whispered beneath her breath, but he heard her and frowned.

"You give thanks to God to see me alive or express relief to appease your guilt?"

"Both," she whispered without thought.

Arms akimbo, feet planted apart, the Phantom stood like a wraith enshrouded within veils of darkness and glared down at her.

"Why have you returned?"

xXx

* * *

 **A/N: So there you have it, (though I know by this opening it is difficult to really see where I'm taking this story). It promises to be quite a journey full of twists and turns... Interested for more?**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Thank you so much for your interest and wonderful reviews! :) So glad you guys want more...and here it is...**

* * *

 **Chapter II**

.

He stared at her intently from his lofty height, looking unkempt and careworn, much as she had left him.

She held back, self-conscious, at the moment regretting her snap decision to find him and wishing to be anywhere but there.

His wig was still absent after her wrenching it away with his mask on stage, his natural hair hanging in wild and messy strands about his face and neck. What was left of his costume from the Don Juan clung to him, his chest pale and glistening with a sheen of sweat, his voluminous shirt dirty and damp and molding to his lean-muscled torso. His dark breeches fit him like a second skin, with his tall boots completing the picture of rogue pirate.

The entirely masculine sight of her fallen Angel brought a flush of unwanted warmth rushing beneath Christine's skin.

Though he destroyed all he'd known and had his world ripped asunder, though his clothing wasn't pristine, nor his appearance grand as was common, he displayed that strange deceptive composure. That elegant, powerful grace which flowed through his every movement like music as he took the stairs down to the level where she so awkwardly stood.

He kept his right hand held fast over the twisted part of his face, the match to his glaring eye apparent between the gap of his long, slender fingers. Those changeable eyes, both blue and green, one intense color often overpowering the other, held her spellbound. Tonight they burned her with the steady flame of a blue fire, wet and red-rimmed from their earlier outpouring of torrential emotion. The aromas of candle smoke and the musty cavern mingled with the musk of fresh exertion and an exotic scent entirely his own, none of it unpleasant.

He assailed her senses –

Living. Breathing. Strong…

There.

He came to a stop on the stair above where she stood. A cloth had been tied around his left hand, and she remembered the drops of blood seen between the shattered mirrors behind her.

"You are hurt," she whispered, barely able to quench the tears from resurfacing.

Her hand reached toward his bandaged hand of its own accord. He took a step back, evading her touch and lifting his head to look down through slitted lashes at her.

"I asked what you are doing here." He glanced toward the portcullis. "Are you once more the bait and is this the trap? Is your _noble_ _lover_ waiting beyond the gate with his armed men seeking to apprehend me?"

She winced at his justified attack and barely shook her head.

"No, of course not." She could barely form syllables, her gaze falling to the ground in shame and disappointment.

"Of course not." His words made a mockery of hers. "You will understand if I am hesitant to believe that."

This was not the man she had left behind. That man had been broken, in tears and vulnerable, singing to the poignant tune of a music box, a lonely song of hopelessness and hiding. That man had caressed her ears with his angelic voice, quietly singing of his love for her as she bid him a tearful and silent farewell…

This man looked as though he would rather curse her than kiss her for her impulsive return.

At her failure to expound with an explanation, the Phantom narrowed his eyes and looked her over head to toe. For the first time he noted her disheveled state. Her wild ringlets of curls now no more than waves plastered about her waist, her dress in the same sodden condition. His eyes made another inclusive sweep of her form, from skirt to head, resting scant seconds on the wet upper curves of her small breasts before again seeking answers in her dark eyes.

They shimmered with a strange mix of apprehension and hope. For a moment his heart stopped, then resumed its dull, heavy beating.

Abruptly he walked past where she stood stock still awaiting his next move. He remembered her doing the same to him and in this spot, when he enclosed the ring into her hand. The veil still lay where she had so carelessly dropped it.

"Did you fall into the lake? Where is your cloak? Did you venture into the night without it, reckless child?"

At the questions he snapped out behind her, Christine at last found breath to give her voice.

"I left it in my dressing room this afternoon. I –I couldn't retrieve it. The fire…" She clenched her hand in her damp skirt and closed her eyes at the memory. "And then the rain started again on my journey here -"

The sudden heaviness of material swathed across the back of her shoulders made Christine startle, and her quiet words came to an abrupt close. His hands withdrew, careful not to touch her. She pulled the edges of fine wool close, bringing them around her shivering form, at once realizing he had wrapped her in his heavy, gold-lined cloak.

Again he moved to stand before her. She nervously kept her eyes fixed, staring at the soiled creases of his shirt, before blinking up at him.

"You should remove those wet clothes before you catch your death," he said.

Her heart gave an erratic thump. His tone was hardly suggestive, but the words themselves seemed to imply a deeper meaning.

"Do you have something I can change into?"

"You should _leave_ _here_ and change out of your clothes."

Drawing her brows together in dissatisfaction of his terse response, she cast her gaze downward, her own eyes taking a swift inventory of his person before landing on the smithereens of glass that gleamed near his booted feet.

"As should you."

"Do not pretend to care."

She deserved that; it stung, nonetheless.

"Why _are_ you here, Christine? I asked you once. Now I demand to know."

"I only wanted …" So much. All of which she could not put into words. "I wanted to know that you're alright."

He gave a low, caustic laugh and walked a short distance away. "Alright." He addressed the shattered mirror's frame and let out another laugh, this one hollow. "Yes, Christine, I am 'alright.'" He looked fully at her. "You may go now."

"I would like to stay. Only for a little while," she added quickly at the dark look her words engendered.

"That would not be wise. You must return before you are missed and a second mob storms through my caverns to hunt me to ground, hoping to cage and kill me."

She frowned. "You're not an animal."

"No?" His third chilling laugh came a little mad, and she forced herself to stand motionless and not flee at his gradual re-approach. "A beast is ALL that I am, or have you so soon forgotten? Even you, the sweet and oh-so-innocent Angel, who could find a measure of good in all things, could not see past the trappings to the man who so vainly struggled to surface from beneath the monster…"

Unwittingly, she took a step back. His words were soft but sharp, piercing into her heart like the glass underfoot pierced into her soles.

"No matter." His smile was bitter. "That man died tonight."

"I don't believe that."

"Then you are a blind fool as well as a selfish traitor."

Tears stung the back of her eyes as she took in the stony, unforgiving set of jaw.

He had been angry with her before, had spoken harshly to her when he was upset with how badly she performed or had been tardy to a lesson. His words were always used as a disciplinary tool to prod her into excellence. But never had he insulted her solely to wound, as he did now. What was worse than his quiet, vicious attack was the knowledge that he wasn't wrong in his assessment. She _had_ been blind, she _had_ acted as a fool, and she _had_ betrayed him in a manner that hardly came across as selfless.

Despite understanding that she deserved every bit of his censure, the vulnerable part of her that still craved his approval hugged her arms as a shield over her bruised heart and whispered a plea to stop, silently begging for the impossible, for life to return to what it had been days ago.

"Why do you treat me like this?" The words slipped from her thoughts of their own accord.

" _Why_? You ask _why?!_ " His eyes burned in accusation. "I don't know whether I am more astounded by your unerring bad judgment and failure to recall recent events, or by your foolish audacity to come here alone and confront the wounded beast in his den."

"I'm sorry," she said, her voice wavering. "So very sorry, Ange –"

"Do not…." His voice came soft and clipped, his hand lifting in an abrupt motion to halt her words.

But she could not stem what begged to be said.

"I never meant to hurt you," she insisted, _"never._ But you frightened me. Your anger and your lust for blood frightened me, and I didn't know what to do!"

The Phantom closed his eyes and turned his head aside in a vain attempt to shut out her image and her voice.

He knew full well his sins; he did not need her reminder that she did not carry the full brunt of the blame. But his vengeful wrath against the opera house had been spurred by her callous betrayal. A betrayal that wounded him to the core, more deeply than any weapon of iron or steel could have inflicted.

It was that hellish pain burning inside his soul that caused him to strike out against her, to say such cruel and cutting words. By God, she was responsible for plotting his destruction, and very nearly succeeded with his demise. She and that despicable boy with whom she was so enamored…

He hardened his heart to her tears.

He would not be fooled again.

He had not coerced her return, did not want her here – did not deserve her admonishment or require her apology.

Why the devil **_was_** she here?!

Christine gripped the burlap sack she held more tightly to prevent her hand from lifting to his arm in a gentle effort to coax him to listen to what she could scarcely frame words for or herself understand.

Her sorrowful gaze took in his face he worked so hard to conceal. Oh, that tortured, tragic face. One side well sculpted, pleasantly arranged - the counterpart to those features appearing as if the sculptor had wearied of his work and deliberately failed to smooth the rigid clumps of raw, angry red clay, before firing the statue to achieve completion.

The bitter eye not covered by his fingers darted down to her clenched hands.

"What is that you carry?"

His gruff voice brought her out of her rapt introspection. At the reminder, she withdrew his mask from the sack and slowly handed it to him.

"I thought you would want this back."

For a long moment he stared at the ivory, porcelain mold, his fingers shifting claw-like against his skin, his other hand clenching into a fist at his side, but made no move to take it.

"And so, once again we come full circle." He lifted both eyes from the mask again to entrap her own with their angry allegation. "You rip away my mask, you offer it back."

"There were soldiers!" Her defense sounded weak to her own ears. "So many."

"I was well aware of their presence."

"You were?" She blinked in confusion. "But – you just stood there, then broke away from the opera to ask me to…to…"

"Share a lifetime with a monster?" his one dark eyebrow lifted wryly as he finished her faltering sentence and stepped closer.

He grabbed her chin with his free hand and held it in a firm grasp, his long fingers and palm making a slow slide to encompass her throat. The bandage around his hand was rough against her delicate skin, his fingers like points of fire where they splayed against her neck.

Heat poured off of him in waves, flowing into her and sparking warmth through her blood, so that she nearly forgot all about the discomfort of her wet dress. His eyes held hers captive and began to glow with a strange intensity as if looking into her very soul and commanding forth the passion formerly denied.

Even in his bitterness and anger, he overwhelmed her senses, making her feel so many things she did not understand …

And feared to know.

Her body tensed in mild recoil. With a brusque oath he dropped his hold from her and walked past her in retreat. She held his cloak more tightly around her trembling form, faint from the kiss almost shared, remnants of their earlier passion tormenting her precarious hold on modesty, even as she shied away from what that meant.

"You need not fear, my dear," he said in low, acerbic tones. "I have been made well aware of the true depth of your scheming heart. To think I was such a fool to imagine that you could bear to look at this _distorted_ face that is _hardly_ a face in the darkness."

Her eyes grew wide at his sardonic quip. She was barely aware she moved to face him.

"You were _there_?" she whispered. "You heard us talking that night?"

"I hid behind a statue on the rooftop and heard every one of your disparaging words, then witnessed you rush into that imprudent fool's arms…" He narrowed his eyes to pinpoints of accusing blue flame. "This afternoon, in the chapel, I hid behind the grate and heard the two of you conspire in your plot against me."

Her face blanched when confronted with the reminder of her treachery and his full knowledge of it. She had not wanted to partake in Raoul's scheme with the managers, but she did no more than offer up excuses that her heart was torn and conflicted, having done nothing to stop their plot from unfolding. Instead, she had acted as they wished and taken the stage instead of giving the task to her understudy. Had she only feigned illness, her Angel would never have walked into their trap.

The Phantom laughed without humor.

"Ah, so the flighty memory returns to roost home once more. As I said, I knew the soldiers would be there because I heard _you_ betray me, my dear, though I daresay even I have not killed a thousand men."

"You killed Buquet," she whispered. "Tonight, you murdered Piangi."

His eyes fell shut against her accusations, as if to block them from knowledge.

"God help me, I had no wish to go out on that stage," she said, "you overheard our discussion in the chapel, _you must have known that_ – but what else was I to do?"

"Poor conflicted Christine," his voice was as smooth as silk and laced with scorn. "But come, you have no cause for grief. You did what your lover expected and what was considered _noble_ as the tragic heroine in this story. It is all a matter of perspective, really – to entrap and kill the monster is noteworthy and honorable, but for the monster to strike out before he can be discovered and destroyed is regarded as _cold-blooded murder."_

She gripped his cloak tighter around her at his dark emphasis on the words, the hot despair now burning into her soul. The bitter confusion she earlier buried rose once again to ensnare her.

"What of Señor Piangi? What did he ever do to you that deserved his death?"

"An unfortunate error in judgment on his part. I intended only to render him unconscious and ordered him to be silent. But the wretch struggled and thrashed beyond the curtains, attempting to scream and warn everyone of my presence there. His own bumbling actions caused the rope to bind more tightly against his windpipe and bring about his demise."

She winced at his emotionless recounting, his manner cool and reserved, and shook her head in disbelief.

"The fire spread. Many of the audience were wounded. A woman who was with child."

The Phantom grimaced at her disgusted words, feeling a morsel of pity. He never intended for the fire to rage beyond the targeted area of the stage, nor had he wished that any of the hapless theater-goers be harmed. But he refused to be cowed with guilt in front of this deceptively childlike woman who'd become the executioner to his heart.

"I warned of a disaster beyond imagination, and assumed the fools would extinguish the fire at once with the buckets of sand kept in the wings for that purpose. I planned the chandelier's crash only as a diversion to escape with you, not for the theater's annihilation."

"And your attempts to kill Raoul?"

"Well deserved," he hissed through gritted teeth. "Why are you still here, Christine? Go back to your lover and leave me be."

"Stop saying that."

She fidgeted and looked away in unease.

A third time he approached.

"Did I misunderstand the meaning of a secret engagement? Or of the kisses you so freely bestowed as he whirled you across the rooftop and you laughed with giddy glee to his nauseating charm?"

She frowned. "Did you spy on _everything_ I said and did?"

"Of course. That is what monsters do. Did you suspect otherwise? I never claimed to be a gentleman, _you could not even see me as_ _a man_ \- and I did not come out the victor in our cataclysmic finale. That is for the knights on their white steeds, after they have slain the loathsome dragon."

They stared hotly at one another, the tension a tangible force between them. Christine felt the perspiration pop out in little beads all over her skin, blending with the drops of rain.

"So, why are you not with him now, sharing in his victory?" he insisted.

"He wanted me to go with him, to his parents' estate. I almost did. I left with him in his carriage, we had nearly left the courtyard…"

"Well then?!"

"I demanded to be let out and sent him away."

He clenched his teeth and grabbed her hard beneath the shoulders, momentarily forgetting his resolve to shield his deformity from her eyes.

" _Why are you here?"_ He gave her a little shake. _"_ ** _What more do you want from me?_** "

At his third demand for an answer, Christine feebly shook her head. Her pulse raced with his close proximity, her mind and heart a tumult of hopeful confusion and breathless trepidation. It had always been so, this power he held over her, this forceful urge to submit, no matter the cost, when she should do nothing but flee.

All the reasons for seeking him out that she rehearsed during her walk to his lair, all of those terribly important things she wished to say went flying from her head at the chill memory of all that transpired scant hours ago.

 _He was a murderer. An arsonist. A thief. Without scruples, without regrets._

"I … don't know."

His face twisted in a scowl and he gave her shoulders another brusque shake.

"You came all this way, alone, through the rain, in the dead of the night, without clear knowledge of why you did?"

At the disbelief ringing in his tone, she answered with the one verity she held to amid the chaos raging through her mind.

"I wanted to see you."

"You wanted to see me," he repeated as if testing the words and finding them false. He dropped his hands from her shoulders in disgust. "To learn if I was 'alright'. So you have said. So you have done, and still you remain though I have told you to go back to your boy."

"I want to stay."

Oh, why had the ability for loquacious and eloquent speech left her? Why could she form no more than pitiful, choppy sentences better suited to a child?

Surprise glimmered in his eyes before they again filled with suspicion. He stepped closer, and she had the distinct impression that he was testing her acceptance to his nearness, no doubt expecting her to fidget away, unnerved, as she often did. The hard planes of his body barely brushed against her, making her suddenly wish to melt against his strength. Even defeated and hunted, he held such power.

"And if I should seek a repeat of the kiss you sacrificially gave, what then, Christine?"

Sacrificially?

Her eyes flickered to his lips. So uniquely shaped, a trace of his affliction caused the right side of his upper lip to gently bow upward. They had been so cold against hers, but had warmed quickly…

He drew closer still, until she could feel the heat of his breath caress her cheek. The tips of his fingers barely stroked her arms down to her elbows. She shivered, imprisoned in his featherweight hold, scarcely able to prevent herself from lifting up on her toes, from pressing her lips to his, as recent memory of their touch and his taste overpowered her. Their quickened breaths mingled, and her lips softly parted, wishing to taste again.

"Tell me, Christine. Would you give every part of yourself to me as a bride would to her husband?"

His words came soft, sardonic, yet with a slender thread of hope, and broke through the sensual haze he created. Recollection of her promise to Raoul brought her instant guilt for nearly melting into the Phantom's arms, and she tensed and pulled away, ashamed of her wanton thoughts. No matter these strange feelings he had stirred since the night he'd taken her through the mirror door, no matter how much she yearned to remain in his presence, to be held in his arms and assured all would be well…

There was still the matter of Raoul, to whom she was engaged…

And of her Angel, this _Phantom_ , who was still a murderer.

His eyes searched her face. His features again hardened as he read the truth there. He released her with a little push and clapped his hand back over his damaged face.

"No, of course not. How foolish of me to ask. You cannot love what you fear."

She bristled at that, her defenses rising to the surface and again loosening her tongue.

"I told you at this very mirror where we now stand that I no longer fear you or your face – only what you've become. But with Raoul - I cannot leave things as they are, leave without explanation. He deserves more than that, but I don't know how or what to tell him."

She barely knew what to say to the man before her now. The shock of the entire evening had not begun to fade, making it so very difficult to think clearly.

"Don't bother, my dear. There is no longer a choice to be made."

"What do you mean?" she asked breathlessly.

"I set you free, do you not recall?"

His voice was weary with a rough edge, strained from the night's emotional upheaval, yet still inexplicably beautiful. Oh, what she would give to hear him again tenderly speak her name, to address her in those dulcet, velvet tones…

"I have at last seen the truth," he continued. "No matter your choice of the moment, it will not last. You are still the selfish child, wanting everything her way. The vain young woman – running to your irksome savior when circumstances disappoint, later to your Maestro of Music. Perhaps your training on the stage has led you to become a superlative actress. Either you are hopelessly conflicted or callously manipulative. I would wager you are both."

"How can you say such things to me?" she gasped, accustomed to his vitriol on the masses but never directed toward her. " ** _You_** deceived **_me_** **!** "

"And you **_betrayed_** and **_denied_** me," he countered, his voice a whiplash to her smarting senses. "How long will it take before your lingering fear of my _distorted soul_ drives you back into the arms of that milksop of a boy? How long before your eventual tedium of his company draws you back into my presence? Am I expected to tabulate the remainder of my days by your capricious whims?"

"You make me sound so cold and heartless!"

"Shall I recount the number of times you ran from my presence to the Vicomte's arms in the three months since he arrived at the Opera House? _Before_ any lives were lost? Or how often you grew bored with him and sought to be near me?"

The Phantom snatched the mask from her nerveless fingers and turned swiftly on his heel, away from his beautiful tormentor. Unable to bear the wounded shock on her face, sorely tempted to take her in his arms and beg forgiveness for the suffering he likewise inflicted, he put distance between them and ascended the stairs. Swift escape and bitter words had always been his defense when violence did not suit his purpose. He relied on both now.

"I'm sorry!" she cried out after him. "Please, Ange – Often I don't know my own mind. I wish it weren't so! But so much has happened so fast – I can barely conceive the changes. Please don't go!"

He halted mid-step in hesitation, then turned to look at her.

"What is it you would have me do? Rip my heart from my chest and offer it to you – oh, wait. You have already done that. Perhaps you would wish for a dagger to thrust into my back. Oh, but you have done that too…"

"Stop." Her eyes slid shut in misery at his biting sarcasm. "Please stop."

She had braved the night and the darkness of the caverns to be here. She _would not_ cower in indecision now.

"I wish to stay, only until tomorrow," she hastened to add before he could refuse. "It is such a long walk back, and I am quite weary."

Once they calmed, somehow, surely, they could breach this chasm created through excessive misunderstanding and selfish manipulation. All she wanted was one night, one night to stay in the lovely spare room with the lovely warm bed he had provided for her. In the morning, after they had both rested, surely they could talk and make sense of everything then.

"Stay if you wish…"

She gave him a hopeful smile. "Thank you."

"…but I shall be leaving."

Her smile faded.

"Leaving? But – _where will you go?_ Surely the mob won't return."

"It fails to matter. The illusions, the make believe, all of it is at an end." He waved his arm around the lair in a dismal parody of the night he'd first brought her to this musical sanctuary. "The music of the night is over, Christine! It was no more than a hopeless fantasy, the dream of a monster to find true beauty at last – all of it burned to ashes. I was a fool to think it could amount to anything eternal."

The Phantom's heart seized at the sight of the tears streaming down her cheeks, at the thought of never again looking upon her lovely countenance. Nevermore hearing the splendor of her voice lifted in song.

"I have no wish to drive you from your home, especially when you are in such danger of being caught," she whispered in defeat. "Stay. I will leave and not bother you again."

"This is no longer my home. My time here has reached its conclusion. I wish to find some semblance of tranquility if there is any left to be had in this world for a monster."

Her lashes fell closed. "You are not a monster."

The soft words barely slipped from her lips, but he offered no reply. There was no need. Her betraying actions had proven otherwise, and his violent response had only solidified her belief.

"Y-You'll want this back." She moved to pull his cloak away but he shook his head at her choked offer.

"Keep it. I have others."

She shook her head sadly. "How you must hate me now…"

The words seemed torn from her, her upturned eyes huge, vulnerable and wounded, shimmering with the many tears she had yet to shed.

He only wished that he _could_ hate her, it would make this parting less difficult to bear. But in the depths of his foul, blackened heart, he knew that could never be. He would never again play the fool, never again become her victim.

If he should reassure her that his feelings went unchanged, he did not trust himself not to fall at her feet and beg that she never again leave him. If she should agree, he did not trust that she would not give heed to her fickle heart at some likely point of dissatisfaction and run back to that tiresome boy.

"Farewell, Christine. I wish for you only good fortune." His words, though genteel, came dark and mocking in their bitter despair.

Panic set in. Before he could disappear through the mirror forever, Christine called out to him once more.

"Wait! Please, I … please tell me your name. You never told me."

He turned halfway and hesitated as if he might give in to her burning need to know then shook his head. "It hardly matters any longer. You had no desire to find the man beneath the monster in all of our years together –"

"I thought you a true angel!" she interrupted in distress.

"And when you learned I was not, still you did not care to know. You wished only to continue with the fairy tale created. It is best if you remember me only as a phantom."

"No!" The outburst left her mouth without her realizing it. She moved a few hurried steps forward. "I _kissed_ you…"

He swallowed hard, briefly closing his eyes at the remembrance of her soft, warm lips on his in a kiss that had shattered his dark resolve and given him the power to send her away.

"A noble sacrifice on your part to save the boy. I applaud your show of bravado and give you to him with my blessing. Though you were never truly mine to give."

"But – _you said you loved me_ …" Her words were timid, barely whispered.

He flinched with the memory, feeling his resolve begin to waver.

"A hardship I will learn to bear."

"Tell me what I can do to fix this," she begged.

He looked at her fully then.

"There are some things that simply cannot be mended, my dear. They are destined to remain broken."

"No, I won't believe that!" She furiously denied his wretched words.

"Nonetheless, it is true. I am partly to blame by leading you to believe in the guidance of an angel and never correcting the misconception. I erroneously assumed you were ready to accept the role for which I molded and trained you." He wearily shook his head. "You bear the years of a woman, but are still so much a child, enraptured by a world of pretense. If that wretched boy has his way, he will sap what little strength of mind you possess, until you remain dependent on his every rash and foolish decision. Told what to do all the days of your life. Never given credence to possess a logical thought in your head…"

His curt tirade softened to a lull. "Do not let that happen, Christine. Become all you are meant to be. Let no one interfere or stand in the way of your talent."

She gave up trying to stem the flow of tears. It was the first kind thing he'd said to her since her return, but these words, too, troubled her heart.

He had been her instructor, ever since she could remember, and she had heeded his teaching. Now she miserably wondered if this would be his last lesson taught.

"Will I _never_ see you again?" she asked mournfully.

He sighed. "It is best if you forget me, Christine. Forget all of this. You will be much happier for it."

With that, he turned and disappeared through the secret entrance, the tapestry falling back into place.

Staring at the spot where he'd been in mounting disbelief, she felt the loss, so severe, as if her heart had been twisted and wrenched from her body.

Once, he entered her life through a gilded mirror as both Angel and Phantom.

Now he left her through another mirror as equally shattered as the man.

"Oh, God, no…please no…"

She could barely draw breath, her chest burned so fiercely.

Every fiber of her soul compelled her to follow and beg him to take her with him wherever he was going, if only not to lose all trace of him. What was left of her mangled pride and bruised logic held her back. He would never allow it; he had made his position clear; he did not want her company. And what he asked before – the complete submission of all she was – soul and body – she could not give. Perhaps he no longer wanted that either.

 _He hated her now!_ her heart cried, flayed with the knowledge.

He had truly left, left her here, all alone…

 _But was that not perhaps for the best_? cruel reason argued.

She refused to listen to the pragmatic whispers, refused to bow under the weight of her heart's sorrow.

Every tenet of her faith shuddered and balked to spend a lifetime with a murderer who showed no remorse for his sins. Nor was she certain if this whirlwind of lonely despair not to have him near, along with the troubling attacks of passionate abandon when in his presence, could call itself love. She once thought the emotion pure and gentle, composed of fairy tales and romance with handsome princes and beautiful estates to live out one's days.

She could not have been more mistaken.

He hated her now…

Though she had yet to fully understand what it meant to love, or even _who_ she was meant to love. Love surely did not cause such wretched pain that made it difficult to breathe and impossible to think. Love was meant to bring joy and laughter and delight unparalleled…

She wrapped her arms tightly around herself in the pretense of a hug. Not yet seventeen and she felt utterly and hopelessly lost. Without hope. Abandoned and alone. For over one decade she had coveted and relied on her Angel's secret companionship, sometimes the bliss of Elysium, other times the direct opposite of that; often strict. Sometimes harsh. But always he had been there to turn to when she needed him.

Christine sank to her knees on the glass-strewn rock while shards of grief pierced deep into her soul. She welcomed the sharpness that pricked beneath her heavy skirts but did not puncture them. Deep sobs wracked her body as she wept from the emptiness of a loss too great to bear.

Her home. Her career. Her Angel.

Once again, the little orphan girl had lost everything that mattered...

And this time there would be no gentle voice in the night to soothe away her fear.

 **xXx**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Thank you so much for the wonderful reviews! After the last two angsty chapters, leaving some of you in dismay, here's one with a wee bit more humor – and the introduction of my interpretation of another character loved by many (I think I forgot to mention it in my intro- but this also has aspects of Kay - so maybe should have gone in the book section and not the movie section? lol Oh,well.)… And now…**

* * *

 **Chapter III**

The door shook in its frame with the force of the banging on the wood. After interminable moments it was awarded relief as it opened. A cloaked fugitive swept past the short, elderly Persian who answered the nocturnal summons.

"Erik," he said with scant surprise, as if having the walls shake with the force of insistent pounding in the dead of night and being barreled past into his home was a commonplace occurrence. And indeed, for this guest, it was. "What a pleasure to see you. Do come inside."

He waved an impatient hand, casting aside all pleasantries, and came straight to the point. "I need a place to stay for a short time, Daroga."

The Phantom's command was thinly veiled as a request. He rubbed a terse hand down the back of his natural hair, oddly absent of a wig. Grabbing the crystal decanter kept there for his sporadic visits, he filled a tumbler with a shot of brandy.

Nadir Khan sighed and shut the door, throwing the lock. "Are you sure you would not care for some spiced almond tea instead?" he carefully phrased his question, eyeing his friend's distraught appearance and trying to gauge the extent of his latest dark mood.

In response Erik tossed the brandy to the back of his throat and poured himself another.

"I take that as a no…"

"I have burned all bridges this time." The Phantom approached a chair, glass in hand, and fell into it, long legs sprawled, his despondent action still somehow managing to display a careless, elegant grace. "I destroyed all that ever mattered. There is no turning back."

Finally catching on to the seriousness of the situation, the Daroga sobered. "Certainly it could not be so bad, never as bad as Persia." His composer-artist friend had a leaning toward the melodramatic, and with the quiet reminder he hoped to help Erik put things in perspective.

The Phantom grimaced at the Daroga's reference to one of the most harrowing episodes in his life. "I brought down the opera house. It is in ruins. I lost the woman of my dreams. She left. With _him_."

His face twisted with the pain of witnessing her tears of misery, with a surge of anger at himself for ordering her to go – and at her fickle heart for initially leaving.

Later, he had stood just inside the draped tapestry of the mirror, battling the strong impulse to retrace his steps to where she stood and surrender to whatever she asked, to seize the pleasure of a kiss he'd so callously thwarted, never once believing such bliss could be his to possess. Hopelessly resigned to take whatever crumbs she would toss his way, even with the suspicion that their reconciliation would not be long lasting, he had been tempted. Knowing that in the end, she would only leave him again; it was inevitable. Only the slow sound of her footsteps crunching over glass and fading into the distance had brought him to his senses and steeled his resolve to move in the other direction.

Erik finished his drink with one brutal snap of his wrist and swiftly rose to his feet, hurling the empty glass at the hearth with a growl. He felt uncertain if he was more incensed with his wretched, battered heart for almost giving in, to play the cycle all over again, or for shirking from further abuse and leaving her there.

"Feel free to dispense with the stemware. I have plenty to go around."

The Phantom narrowed his reddened eyes. "You always led me to believe you were a man of compassion."

"I understood that compassion is a trait you have no time for."

"How astute of you to remind me. I left my lasso behind, but I could make biscuits flavored with arsenic to go with your tea," the Phantom countered dryly. "Since you enjoy the taste of almond so well."

"It sounds to me as if you have accomplished enough mayhem for one night's work."

The Phantom sighed, dropping his body back to the chair and his head into his hands.

"What have I done…?" he whispered.

The Daroga leaned forward, taking pity on him. "Tell me, my friend."

There were few people the Phantom trusted and never entirely, but the Daroga, once the chief of police at the Shah's palace, was on that short list. Ten years ago, the Persian helped him escape certain death. At least twenty years his senior, their association had been forced by necessity, the Daroga having had his share of blood on his hands, first due to fealty and later in rebellion of a sadistic ruler.

Though he often threatened the Persian when angered, the Daroga was one of three people the Phantom would never willingly send to an early grave. The second was Madame Giry, who saved him as a child, and like the Daroga, gave him unconditional loyalty, both parties for reasons of their own. And the third, of course, was Christine.

Contrary to Opera Ghost belief, he did not kill for sport or to pass the time when a bad case of ennui took hold. He killed out of necessity with the instinct to survive, wretched beast that he was to desire to live. Piangi had been a mistake, as he told Christine. Buquet, though she had not asked, not only threatened the Phantom's existence with his continual desire to hunt him out and spread false tales, to further rile the masses against the Opera Ghost. But the lecher spied on Christine while in a state of undress, later stalking her in the corridor. His death became paramount as a matter for her protection. But he never meant to maim or kill those wretches whose sole crime had been to enjoy a late night at the opera and see his life's work. So many deaths to add to his number, the sum of which was too numerous to count. Surely he was beyond redemption…

Though an angel, in a state of nervous frailty, had again sought him out, without knowing why.

 _Oh, Christine..._

For the next quarter hour, the Phantom related the tale of the moment all had gone wrong at the Bal Masque to this evening's premiere of Don Juan Triumphant and all the horror that transpired.

"She returned and gave you her ring." The Daroga looked steadily at him in shock upon the conclusion of the bitter tale.

"Immediately to walk away and leave with the boy," the Phantom added testily.

"Only to return hours later and beg to stay. Am I the only one to see the common thread?"

The Phantom frowned. "She betrayed me in the plot of the meddling Vicomte's, allowing herself to be used as bait. I heard the words from her own lips. Her reluctance to comply, her eventual surrender to his plan…"

"And did you not deceive her these many years in the pretext of being her Angel?"

His words mirrored Christine's hurt response. But he was drowning in guilt and did not need more reason to despise his existence.

"You can be extremely wearing on the nerves, Daroga."

"It is one of my many skills. The process of questioning helps to expose the facts. Most helpful in my line of work."

"You are ten years retired."

"One never forgets these things." The Daroga took a sip of his steaming tea. "What interests me most is that ring. Do you still have it by chance?"

With a grimace, the Phantom pulled the token from inside his waistband where it fit snugly, the facets pressing painfully into his skin as a cold reminder. He took one dark look at it and handed it over.

The Persian's eyes widened at the extravagant display of diamonds. "She _gave_ you this, after you stole it from around her neck at the Bal Masque, then later returned it to her?"

"Is that so unusual?" the Phantom barked and in a fit of restless energy, returned to the table to pour himself a third drink, hoping the alcohol would numb his mind and make him forget. "It became for me a symbol of the ring I wished to present to her, for what I hoped would be our wedding." He let out a humorless chuckle. "She returned it to me and left."

"She returned _to you_ the ring given _to her_ by the man to whom she is affianced?"

Erik grunted. "You are making a titanic commotion out of nothing."

"It rather does sound like an opera. How I detest such spectacles. I don't know why the silly plays grew to be so popular."

"I could easily create a trapdoor for you through which to disappear," the Phantom groused, as if ticking off his options.

"There is one matter you seem to be overlooking in all this," Nadir said, ignoring the wry threat. "Of course, due to your highly acclaimed genius, I blame your distressed state and the brandy."

The Phantom scowled. "And that is?"

"Despite all of what happened, she came back."

"I am well aware of that fact – did I not tell you moments ago? But for how long would it have lasted _this time_? A day? A week?" He shook his head in disgust. "It no longer matters. Whatever we had – or would have had – is over. She will eventually return to that boy if she has not done so already. It is inevitable. She is a child in logic, who does not know what she wants, and I was a fool to ever think it could have been me."

The Daroga said nothing, watching as his unhappy friend picked up the bottle and strode toward the guest room. The sound of the door slamming made clear the discussion was over. He was accustomed to Erik's short outbursts and foul temperament, his moods erratic, swinging one way then immediately another. But in this, his tormented friend had just cause.

The news of the Opera House's demise and Erik's part in it, while certainly tragic, did not unduly surprise or shock Nadir. The events of Persia, especially those leading to their escape from the Shah, were far worse.

It was a pity such calamity had befallen Paris and those who had visited the Opera that night. Nadir thought back to the day when Erik, a young man he then presumed to be in his early twenties, had visited him with a look of hope in his eyes he had never before witnessed, his words tentative but encouraging, about an enchanting little girl he'd seen in the chapel and her gentle pleas for an Angel of Music to come visit her. His admittance had followed, that he had pitied the child and answered her through the walls, marveling over the curious warmth he felt in his chest at seeing her great happiness in her bright smile. A novelty for Erik, to give someone pleasure and not pain.

" _What else was I to do, Daroga? I could not disappoint her, when she begged me to visit her again. How many have wished for my company in this world?"_

Nadir said little, knowing there was nothing he could say to change Erik's mind and little he could do to prevent such a future from unfolding. He had seen a remarkable change come over his friend when he became Angel to a lonely child. Of course Nadir had been somewhat concerned by the devious ploy but chose not to speak, grateful to see Erik turn his masked face away from the macabre and give outlet to one of his more rewarding skills, his music. He had known Erik only a short time while in Persia, the young court magician's genius in herbs and illusory tricks of the mind giving Nadir's terminally ill son a more peaceful death, at his behest. Later, in his official rank as the Daroga, Nadir helped Erik evade the entire palace guard. With no familial ties to bind him and his own life in jeopardy as a traitor to the Shah for helping in the escape, he left his homeland behind and journeyed with Erik to France.

Death had been the driving force to bring them together, but how Nadir Khan wished for _life_ for his friend.

After the cataclysmic horror and bitter remorse he experienced with regard to Persia, which Erik never spoke of but Nadir sensed haunted him, his association with the child Christine brought purpose to his life and teaching her had given him pleasure. On the rare occasion Erik would visit, Nadir had been stunned by the positive change in his outlook, which all too soon became an obsession to have her as his own once she blossomed into a woman. During his last infrequent visit with Erik, Nadir warned him not to pursue – since she had never yet seen him to know he was a man and not a celestial creature. Erik had stormed out of Nadir's flat with a few cutting words and remained distant - until tonight, when he arrived in a state of emotional collapse.

Nadir did not know Christine Daaé, having seen her only once from afar. Yet if her heart was as conflicted as Erik claimed, it would be wisest if she kept far from her former voice instructor. The two had almost destroyed each other, and he had no wish to see his friend's heart again shattered and watch him draw further into himself in becoming a ghost. If fate had truly designed the paths of these two miserable, lonely souls to one day cross and parallel, as Erik vehemently claimed months ago, then so be it. But at this juncture of their lives, Nadir could not foresee anything prosperous coming out of their union.

Erik would be livid if he learned the Daroga interfered, and he questioned his wisdom to intrude into the life of a man so tormented and feared in Persia he had been called the Mask of Death. But perhaps a note to this Madame Giry was in order…

x

For three days the Phantom closed himself up in the guest room in a masochistic orgy of drinking, cursing and lament, the entirety of his thoughts revolving around the loss of his Angel. Powerless to resist, she had come back to him – again. Acting with malice, he had forced her away – again. A game of deceit and heartache in a cycle that was never ending. He barely slept and never ate, wishing he could cut out his bleeding heart. Only then did he believe this throbbing pain would cease, for he would be dead and unable to feel.

How could he exist without Christine in his life? She had given him a reason to live, extending toward him companionship, respect, affection…

And a kiss.

Never in his life had he known the touch of lips on flesh, and had not expected the extent of awe and passion that had shaken him to the core when her lips pressed so deliberately against his. No matter that her approach had been self-sacrificial, he had felt her own surprise in their kiss, which then led to one deeper and even more soul-shattering. He could have taken her, yes, and she would have gone with him, either time.

He could have had her in his bed and made her his by forcing all of her recurrent fears to yield to the fire that burned within passion. A feeling shared, the extent of which she was still unaware but could no longer deny. Both of them innocents to the act, but both inherent to the heat that raced through the blood when with one another.

He had seen enough through his eavesdropping to know that she did not feel the same desperate urges when with that milksop of a boy…

But later, once the rapture faded, she would have come to hate him for his treachery. It had been a kiss freely given, but the demand of more from a monster had been unconscionable. He had never planned to tarnish his Angel, aware of her deep-seated beliefs, intending that a priest should bind them. But she did not want to be shackled to a beast - had he not heard her on the rooftop? Beauty sought after beauty. Regret and unease would have soon filled her inconstant heart, as it often did these last months, until she could bear no more, and she would have left him unaware, to return to that wretched boy.

And that surely would have dealt the killing blow.

Yet, for all that, it was not Christine's failure to commit her life to a monster that broke his resolve to claim her…

At the distant beat of drums and the roar of the mob calling out for the Phantom's blood, he came to realize he could not force upon her a role in the wretched future that should be his alone to bear. In an atypical move, he conceded defeat and wished her well in her future as a wealthy Vicomtesse.

Now he cursed his attempt to be merciful and strode out of the room in a foul temper.

The Daroga sat in the breakfast nook, eyes widening in surprise. "A pleasant afternoon, my ghostly friend. I had begun to think you would never come out for air. But in recalling your former home, I suppose you are accustomed to a tomb-like existence."

The Phantom scowled at the man's disgusting cheerfulness. "Is that the _L'Époque_?" He snatched the newspaper from the Daroga's hands and hastily riffled through it, scanning the captions in the society pages.

"I see that you're in your usual delightful mood today."

"Nothing," Erik bit out, ignoring him. "Not one word in four days! What are they waiting for? A bloody invitation to the French court? Why is there no announcement of her engagement to the fool?"

"Why indeed," the Daroga said thoughtfully. "Would you care for some luncheon?"

"Brandy. I need more brandy." The slam of the guest room door enunciated the statement.

After three more days of this forced extraction from life, Nadir had had enough, but neither was he a fool. Should he barge into the room or take Erik by surprise, by intent or by accident, (a feat he long ago reckoned an impossibility), he would likely find his thick neck with the Phantom's hands wrapped around it or any other device that allowed for strangulation. The cummerbund of the costume he still wore for instance…

Humming to himself, he picked up a wooden reed and began to play. He never made it to the second stanza of his impromptu song.

"What the devil is that noise?" The Phantom growled, lurching out of his dark tomb, his hands clutching his head in agony.

"I thought to pass the time and play something I composed."

"Spare me the attempt. It sounds like a screeching rat with influenza."

"Have you ever _heard_ a screeching rat with influenza?"

"Sometimes I despise you, Daroga."

"Nothing out of the ordinary then? Have some tea, my friend. It is newly brewed."

"I need more brandy."

"You drank every drop in every bottle, and I am _not_ going out into the rain for more."

The Phantom slumped to a chair. "I am undone." He dropped his masked face into his hands. No matter his state of sobriety, which was moot since he arrived, he had managed to keep the porcelain covering affixed to the right side of his face. "Why is there no damnable word yet?"

"Are you not more concerned with the investigation to catch the – what was it the newspaper said…?" Nadir pulled it closer and looked over the front page through his moon spectacles. "'…Ah, yes. The highly dangerous and most licentious Phantom of the Opera?'"

Erik waved a hand. "I have been running and hiding the entirety of my life. I find I hardly care anymore. What I cannot tolerate is the wait to hear of Christine's plans – why the devil is there no announcement? What are they waiting for? At least, once the wretched notice is in print, I can then move on to the next stage of this infernal misery."

"You have the design of your misery planned?"

"Your silence would be greatly advised at this time, Daroga."

"You truly are a pitiful sight, Erik."

At the sudden and violent flash of blue-green eyes, Nadir proceeded more cautiously, aware he was indeed pushing too hard. He did not want to rouse his friend's mercurial wrath, but could no longer endure seeing him wallow in such abject despair either.

"You need a bath. You need to eat a true meal that is not composed of liquid sedative from a bottle. And you need a shave."

"Yes, am I not a pretty creature?" the Phantom sneered. "With a face like this, what does it matter if I have whiskers sprouting from my jaw?"

"I could always throw you into the bath with your clothes on. The way you've been weaving, you would have no strength to resist and the clothes would then be laundered."

The Phantom gave a weak laugh. "Bear in mind, I need no lasso to accomplish the task."

"But if you kill me, who then will be audience to your great design of misery?"

It took five more days and countless empty threats before the Phantom succumbed, still no wiser to Christine's status. The dark humor and wry banter he and the Daroga habitually shared over the last decade, ever since coming to France, helped to sharpen his wits and alleviate his black mood and dismal state, though it did not obliterate it entirely. Only one incident could do that, and he lost the chance when he pushed Christine away. It mattered little that he had been the one to leave the final time; the results were the same. She was gone from his life. And the absence of her presence was impossible to bear.

Once water, soap, and decent food returned him as close as he would ever approach the tenets of acceptable humanity, it took another full week for the Phantom to make a decision on what course to take with the rubbish he'd made of his life. He had amassed a small fortune from the managers in the last decade he haunted the theatre as Opera Ghost. Hell, if he wanted to, he could purchase a title, since the possession of one garnered respect from all who heard it. He decided in the end that his imminent departure from Paris would be wise, and a tour throughout Europe might stir ideas for what he wished to accomplish. The Daroga refused compensation, insulted at the very idea, so Erik did what any self-reliant Phantom who scorned charity would do. He stuffed a wad of franc notes in a vase of the guest room for his friend to find later.

Two weeks had elapsed since the night of the fire. One more order of business must be accomplished before leaving this wretched city, and he was most interested to hear what his former aide had to say…

xXx


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Thank you for the wonderful reviews! :) I'm glad you guys are enjoying this ... And now ...  
**

* * *

 **Chapter IV**

On the morning after hellfire swallowed over half the Opera Populaire, the dragon at last vanquished by torrential rains that lasted through the night, Christine pondered her sad dilemma.

Once her nameless Angel left her, forsaken, she had cried herself hoarse then trudged to the boat, only to stare into its prow for long moments, too exhausted to lift the pole for the long journey out of the caverns. Emotionally, physically, she was worn to shreds. She picked her way over ground glass and other remnants of his home to drop, nearly insensible, to the black swan bed. She failed to notice until her eyes again opened and she lit a candle, many from the main room having guttered out, that the luxurious bedding had been sliced through with a blade. Fresh tears leaked from her eyes to find herself alone in his lair and to note the wretched state of the abandoned dwelling.

A small part of her had hoped for his return, but she should have known better. It was rare that he relented from harsh decisions made out of his displeasure, even if by doing so he punished himself in the process. The three months he had remained wretchedly absent before the Bal Masque, despite her frequent pleas at the mirror for him to show himself, was proof of that.

With no idea of the time, she did not linger below, and was grateful that dawn had not yet illuminated the wet streets when she surfaced above. She dreaded her return might yet be noticed, and once again, Fate proved itself unkind.

"Christine?"

She winced to realize she'd been discovered slipping into her dormitory room.

"Where are you going?" Meg groggily sat up in her cot, eyeing the overlong cloak and Christine's damp hair. In the light of the washed-out moon coming from the circular window behind Meg, she could not see her friend's face, whereas Christine felt cast into a spotlight and couldn't hide her guilty expression. "Or perhaps I should ask instead - where have you _been_?"

"Meg, please don't tell your mother."

She gasped. "You went to see him!"

Christine wasn't certain to which man she referred and had no wish to know. "I went for a walk."

"In the rain?" Meg shook her head. "You're wearing _his_ cloak – it's too big to be yours, and the Vicomte wears only long overcoats from what I've seen. Oh, Christine," Meg said on a little distressed whine. "Why would you go and seek out the Phantom, after all he's done?"

Christine was too tired to argue and surrendered to her friend's persistence. "I had some things I needed to say."

"Christine!" By Meg's little squeal, she had hoped she was wrong about Christine's nocturnal activities and dismayed to realize she'd been correct.

"You needn't fret." Christine unfastened the closure at her throat and let his cloak slide from her shoulders, setting it on her cot near Meg's. "He wants nothing more to do with me. He hates me now and has left his home, never to return."

She could not disguise the tremor in her voice but didn't realize she was crying until Meg left her cot to slip an arm around her shoulders. A single tear slid to her jaw. Meg brought her down to sit on the edge of the mattress and Christine tilted her head to Meg's neck.

"I don't want to cry anymore," she whispered. "I'm so weary of crying."

"You have every right to weep buckets after all you've been through - cry all you like."

Meg's soft and angry words oddly curtailed the need, and Christine only sighed.

"You'll forget in time," Meg soothed, bringing her other arm up around Christine in a full hug.

He had told her the same thing. Had _ordered_ her to forget. But how could she remove the most precious part of her life that had filled her soul with music these last ten years? That had spoken to her in the otherwise empty nights, and filled her dreams with his song?

With daybreak soon on the horizon, the girls parted to their respective beds. Christine quietly undressed down to her chemise and slipped into her cot. The bottom few inches of his cloak were soaked from trailing the wet ground; nonetheless she wrung out the excess rainwater and used it as her cover, the satin lining soft against her skin. She pulled her blanket up around her shoulders to disguise the black wool should anyone see.

The morning came, as it must, and along with Meg, Christine was put to work helping to care for the young ballet rats while Madame wrote letters to their families with news of the tragedy and the closing of the ballet conservatoire, expressing the immediate need for students to be collected and returned to their homes.

The entire theater was ghostly and dark, a blackened hull that mocked the vibrant opulence it once proudly flaunted. Those cast and crew who had elsewhere to go had left, and at week's end, those remaining would be forced to leave as well.

The older girls carefully combed the fringes of the theatre untouched by fire, salvaging what they could use. Every scrap of cloth and stick of wood retained the acrid smell of smoke, and blankets and clothing needed laundered twice to remove the foul odor.

While a handful of girls assigned by Madame did the bedding and clothing, Meg and Christine lit lanterns and visited the larder of the empty kitchen to find and prepare what food they could feasibly manage. Neither of them were familiar with culinary skills, though Meg had a little experience in cookery. The gruel they managed was filling but lumpy, and they used too much salt. Still, though the little girls' noses wrinkled in distaste, and Christine winced at the sour, brine flavor, not one bowl went untouched.

She considered it a blessing to be so busy and given no time to think. Thinking brought pain, and pain bled into regret and apprehension of the great, yawning mouth of the future, its teeth sharp and secretly hidden. As long as she concentrated on the many tasks required of her, she could remain empty of feeling as well.

Near noontime, as Christine rested, a young ballet rat approached with a message that the Vicomte waited in the foyer to see her. Not willing to face him yet, she asked Meg to relay the message that she was indisposed and to give her apologies. When she did speak with him, Christine wished to give him her undivided attention, an impossibility at present since she could think of only one man…

And her pitiless mind seemed dead set to remind her of recent events, both the horrid and the remarkable.

She wondered if he had truly left, or if he was beneath the earth, returned to his lair. After so many years hidden below the city, would he simply just walk away from his home? She battled the urge to go and see. If he was there, her presence would likely upset him. And if he wasn't, she would be the one undone.

The second day went much like the first, including her excuses that she asked Madame, this time, to give Raoul.

On the third day, Meg shook her head. "The last time you gave the message that you would see no one, he was extremely displeased. This time he is beyond mere displeasure."

Oh, wretched memory – would it never cease to torment her heart?

The last time she had given the excuse was the morning after she unmasked her Angel and found a tale of horror. Her remorse at her thoughtless act had been swift, though the apology withered and died before leaving her lips. He had raged at her, his fury terrible when witnessed with her eyes and not merely heard from beyond stone. He had hurled curse after curse upon her bowed head, ending his tirade with a shocking plea for acceptance. One she tearfully acknowledged by reaching across the breach erected and handing him back the mask she never should have taken from him in the first place. He had turned away, grimly stating that she must go, and once returned to the oppressive daylight above, the morning dreary with thundershowers, she had sought seclusion inside her darkened dormitory chamber, refusing to see anyone.

Did her Angel count her leaving as one of those transgressions held against her, when _he_ had been the one who decided she must go? Twice more in the weeks that followed he had ordered her to leave, twice more she had succumbed. What would have happened had she refused either time? Would it have changed things?

Christine let out a despondent sigh. It hardly mattered. He made clear that he no longer had any use for her, and she felt the blows of his words as if he had just delivered them. Without meaning to, she had destroyed the fragile threads of his trust, but he was not blameless. She had betrayed him for _three months_ , but he had deceived her for _ten_ _ **years**_. If she could so readily forgive him for his pretense of being an angel, could he not do the same with her for her foolish, indecisive heart?

Yet on one matter, she _had_ reached a decision.

Shortly after Meg left to deliver her message, Christine heard a step at the door of a storage chamber they had turned into a room to dine. It was far enough from the ravages of the fire to be deemed safe, and situated between the kitchen and the conservatoire, for ease of use. She turned to see who had entered.

"Raoul," she said, unable to hide the mild hitch of despair in her voice.

"Christine." He moved into the room uninvited, as forceful as always, casting a speculative eye over her form and clearly finding her in good health. "What is the meaning of this? Why have you refused to see me? You don't look ill."

She laid the empty bowl on its place setting over the sheet covering three long crates that had been pushed together for a table, and smoothed her hands over the soot-streaked apron she wore.

"There has been much to do here," she hedged.

"And you could not grant your fiancé a few minutes time?" he asked, the hurt evident in his tone.

"I'm sorry, Raoul." She meant it, more deeply than he could ever know. "I tried to explain to you that night, but you wouldn't listen." She again rubbed her palms down her apron, now more from nerves than the intent to clean them. "I have come to realize I don't fit into your world."

He stared at her in surprise then shook his head, lightly grasping her shoulders. "Of course you do, darling. What brought this on? Was it something Mother said when you visited two weeks ago? Is that what has had you acting so strangely?" He smiled in tender reassurance. "She can be a trifle haughty at times, but she means well. Don't let her upset you. She'll soon come to love you as much as I do."

More than a trifle. Christine thought back to the private encounter in the Comtesse's private salon and the burning words hissed at her, like fiery darts, each one finding their mark. She shivered at the memory. " _A brazen chorus girl. Unfit to be a de Chagny. A trollop and a gold digger. The Phantom's whore_ …"

She drew away and moved to the other side of makeshift table, straightening a spoon beside a bowl that had no need to be straightened. Again, he came up beside her.

"Christine, please look at me. We can get through this. After surviving that monster's attacks, we can manage anything."

She winced at his derogatory reminder, keeping her eyes on the cutlery. "No, Raoul, I don't think we can. I no longer have the ring to return to you, and I'm sorry for that, but I'm releasing you from your vow to marry me."

"Christine – stop." He took hold of her shoulders, bringing her around to face him, then clasped her ice cold hands. "You're distraught from all that's happened. It's understandable. You need time to recover. Things will soon look brighter, and we can put this unfortunate incident behind us."

The sound of children's voices drawing near had him blow out an irritated breath at the intrusion.

"I'll leave you now, as I suppose I must. We'll talk later." He lifted her hands to his mouth and kissed them, his blue eyes encouraging her to see things his way.

The little girls flocked into the room, to eat their supper, many of them eyeing the well-dressed gentleman in their midst with open curiosity. Thankfully, Raoul did not linger, and Christine set her mind on her task, ladling the thick onion soup from a tureen and into small bowls.

That evening, she barely spoke to anyone, her mind waging battle over what she should do and what must be done.

xXx

The Girys secured a flat barely large enough to hold three people, but Madame insisted Christine stay with them. Several pieces of undamaged furniture from the soon to be condemned opera house they brought with the aid of a wagon to their new home – including three cots, a short sofa, Madame's small secretary, and a table and chairs.

Every morning, she and Meg left the cramped flat and took the two flights of stairs down to the street to look for work. On the third day, both girls acquired a position – until the manager of the theatre learned the identity of his potential new dancer.

"Daaé, you say? No, I've no place for you here," he told Christine coldly. "Don't want anything to do with anyone involved with that accursed Opera Ghost. Don't want my theatre to end up in a pile of ashes."

Christine could have borne the brunt of his curt rejection, but when he informed Meg that he had no use for her either, since she was friends with " _the Phantom's whore_ " – guilt ate at Christine that she'd cost her dear friend a chance at a decent job.

It was the second time that cutting title had been applied to her, and it was the first Christine realized that she had acquired a sordid reputation in Paris. For a thespian, perhaps it wasn't so bad, even expected. But it caused grave problems if no one would hire her.

Outside the small theatre, once they were both hustled out to the street with the door slammed in their faces, Meg encouraged her that there were more worthy establishments in the city to try. But Christine sensed her disappointment.

As the week progressed, each night the girls returned to the flat discouraged by the day's failures. Madame found temporary work as an aide to a seamstress, so they wouldn't starve, and Christine had money put aside, enough to fall back on until she found work.

Raoul visited twice more, each time pressing his suit. Weary and disillusioned, Christine was sorely tempted to reconsider. The idea greatly appealed of never having to worry about what to wear or what to eat or how to live – of having all the luxuries of life at the beckoning of her hand…

Until she remembered the Phantom's accusation of her contrary nature and capricious heart. That was enough to make her refrain from giving Raoul the answer he wanted, because upon deep consideration, she realized with a jolt of shock that the Phantom had not been wrong in his appraisal of he character, or lack thereof.

When the excitement of being with Raoul faded, tedium set in and made her wish for escape. They had so little in common, save for their childhood memories. Music was everything to her, but only a passing diversion to him. She found nothing wrong with the manner of life at the theatre, but he always hinted that it was less than acceptable, as she was soon to be his Vicomtesse. Even the ring he'd given her, though stunning, was not what Christine would have chosen. Her tastes ran toward simple and dainty and that ring had been flashy and ostentatious, crafted to garner envy, though its purpose had been to capture her heart…

And she had folded that ring into the Phantom's hand without regret.

Going back to that devastating moment, she wasn't entirely certain why she did it, except that she felt the strong need to give something to him that was hers, a promise to hold onto that he was never alone, as she had sung to him…much as he had so recently folded that same ring he once absconded with back into her hand, with a promise of eternity together.

Both promises now broken.

At the time she had given no thought to Raoul's reaction at the loss of the ring, forgetting momentarily that he was even connected to it.

God, she truly was heartless. Would she never understand her own mind?

Exhausted from another fruitless day of seeking work, she curled up in the armchair in front of the hearth and studied Madame Giry, who sat on the sofa with her needlework of basting men's shirts.

"Madame, did you know my teacher well?"

Her former ballet instructor stopped and stared at Christine, as if debating whether or not to answer. She dropped her gaze back to her work, the needle flashing in and out of the material several times before she answered, "I knew him many years, but not well."

"Then you must know his name."

Clearly ill at ease, Madame did not immediately respond. "What I know is that you must forget him, Christine. To dwell on the past will solve nothing and can do you little good."

Christine sighed, unhappy with her response. "I cannot forget him so easily, Madame. I thought he was my Angel…" Warmth suffused her face at Madame's sharp gaze. "I never told you; it was my secret, one which he told me to keep. But for many years I thought my teacher a true Angel."

"He is only a man, Christine. A scarred individual, inside and out. And _dangerous_. As you have learned."

The words came brusque and hard, stones thrown against the rose-tinted window of her childhood daydream, forcing it to splinter even more.

He had thrown the first stone to shatter illusion on the night he had come for her through the mirror door. Though then she had felt no sorrow by his deceit, only a hypnotic fascination with his allure.

"I know that now. The night he drew me into his world, I found the Phantom of the Opera. A legend of theatre lore and as mysterious as my musical Angel…"

Madame was concerned by the dreamy quality to Christine's voice. He had painted himself as a creature of impossibility from the beginning, producing awe and wonder within his pupil. Christine never realized that Madame knew about his ploy of pretending to be the child's Angel, though she never condoned it. If she could break through the old pretense and show Christine he was both mortal and flawed, she hoped to make the girl see reason. In truth, she feared for the young woman's soul, sensing there a dark stirring that had begun the night of the fire, when she witnessed Christine sing to the Phantom onstage.

To give only his first name and admit she had no knowledge of his surname would surely only add to the mystery he engendered. And it was time to add flesh and bone to the awe-inspiring spiritual entities of Angel and Phantom he had spun inside a child's mind. The masquerade had ended, and Christine must let it end.

"I first saw him on the night I attended a gypsy fair with a group of my peers who shared my dormitory," Madame began hesitantly. "I was twelve. He looked to be a few years younger…"

Christine held her breath, eyes wide, as she waited for the gaps to be colored in.

"He was one of the attractions there, a sideshow called The Devil's Child, but he was only a small boy in an animal's cage, with mildewed hay for a bed." Madame shook her head sadly in remembrance. "He was filthy, in rags, an undernourished child at the mercy of his cruel jailer who had none. He beat him with a whip as I watched. He tore the burlap sack from his head and forced him on display to the crowd…"

Horrified to hear of the Phantom's tragic past, appalled that someone would do something so heartless to a child, Christine blinked away the hot moisture that gathered in her eyes. She could not think of what to say so said nothing, waiting to hear more.

"I was stunned by the reactions of my peers. With some I expected their mockery and laughter, but not the others. I appeared to be the only one disgusted by the display – not the poor, miserable creature tortured in a cage, but the insensitive crowd. They jeered and threw small rocks and scraps of food at him. One man prodded him sharply with his cane through the bars, wanting a closer look." She shook her head. "It was humanity at its worst. I didn't know it at the time, but I later learned that had been his plight for three years." Madame shuddered.

Christine stared unseeing at a stain on the papered wall, barely able to conceive how her Angel could have survived such abuse. She could not match the two in her mind. How could he come from such degradation, treated as no more than a despised animal - to become a talented musician of such tender passion and inborn refinement? All traits he had showcased in the special times they had been together, in his home. He had called himself both Phantom and Angel, the two entities a world removed, though both were made of spirit and not flesh. As he had been made of flesh. A man. She had seen him, she had _felt_ him…

But who was he really?

"When the rest of the fair-goers all left as a group," Madame continued, "I held back at the entrance and turned to look - just as he wrapped a rope through the bars and around his jailer's throat. I stood there, stunned, not knowing what to do, and did nothing as I watched a man die. But when I looked into the small boy's eyes, once he noticed me standing there, I saw such hopelessness in one so young, such fear. I couldn't leave him there to suffer what torment they would surely do to one who had killed their own. They already treated him as filth. I was sure that to leave him there would be to allow his death.

"So I took the keys and opened the cage. I ran with him through the streets, all the way to the opera house, and brought him there to live, what life he made of it. I hid him away in the cellar below - where props were stored. He soon ventured all the way down to the caverns and made a home there." She expelled a weary breath, as if the recounting of that night took all the strength out of her. "The gypsy fair left the city, any crime becoming only a faded memory, but he chose to remain deep in the bowels of the opera by the lake. Cutting himself off from all human contact. I did what little I could, bringing him food I saved from my plate, but I couldn't journey below often, for fear of being missed. If any of the management had discovered what I'd done - I would have lost my place in the conservatoire and they could have well thrown us both in jail, to hang."

Christine could barely conceive all that Madame told her. The Phantom had killed before, as a boy. He had killed the gypsy who beat him. Madame had saved her Angel's life and brought him to the Opera, where he remained…

It was a moment before she could frame a reply.

"Did he live there, beneath the earth, all this time?"

Madame did not seem happy with her intrigued response.

"He was barely a man when he grew restless and dissatisfied with life, and became eager to strike out on his own and see more of the world. I tried to dissuade him, he knew nothing beyond the opera house walls, but he was insistent. He was gone for over two years and returned shortly, back to the cellars beneath, a few months before you came to live there. I know only that he went to Persia. I know nothing of his time spent there."

Persia…

Christine pensively stared into the low flames of the small hearth, recalling the exotic tales her Angel would sometimes tell her as a child, of faraway lands, with domed white buildings against a jewel-toned sky, a land of nightingales and exotic creatures that made her breathless to hear of their existence. Wishing she, too, could see the reality of the vivid pictures he painted with his quiet, gentle words…

However, it was Madame Giry's tale of woe with regard to one small boy that remained with her as she tried to sleep that night and on into the next day when she remained behind, while Madame and Meg visited the bakery to purchase baguettes for supper.

Christine opted to stay at the flat alone, weary of the public attention she sometimes drew, that of curious pity, other times suspicious disgust, her face easily recognizable as the diva from the posters of Don Juan Triumphant plastered all around Paris. Some of those flyers she walked among had become the target of vandals, and she had experienced a mingling of fright and distress when she came upon one poster with her entire body spattered in red paint, meant to look like blood.

Many blamed her for the night of the fire, and once recognized, she often noticed the whispers and cold stares directed her way. Everyone who had made a living there lost it, because of her impulsive act rooted in fear. Everyone who had attended the Opera that night had suffered in one way or another, and she was as much to blame as the Phantom.

Her reputation in tatters, finding decent work in the city had become impossible, for Meg as well, thanks to Christine. She had helped with the first payment of rent, having saved up her modest wages for the two years that she received earnings. Rarely one to buy small luxuries, dipping into her income only for the occasional purchase, she had accrued a tidy little sum she kept hidden away in a small locked box kept under her cot, the key once hidden beneath a loose stone in the chapel beside where she sat to take her lessons from her Angel. Raoul thought her hard-earned income – "sweet," a nest egg she should use to take her friends out to luncheon or buy them little fripperies, insisting he would supply her with anything she desired or needed. It slightly offended her that he thought so little of her work, as to make the profit from it inconsequential, but she had only smiled in submissive agreement.

Now her resolve had grown, made stronger after hearing the tale of the boy who grew into the Phantom. She, too, felt restless and had become a burden to both Madame and Meg, though they never said so.

Raoul's ardor had not cooled, and he simply would not take Christine's words at face value. Too much had happened to go back to a state of blind ignorance and foolish pretense. That night would always come between them, and she would _not_ run to his arms for comfort, not when her heart was so inconstant and her actions so predictable. The Phantom had been correct in that regard as well, and it stung each time she thought about it. She did not want to be that woman any longer.

It had been almost two weeks since the fire that destroyed her home, when Christine came across the letter lying open at the small secretary Madame used for writing. Christine had no wish to pry, but in her brief glance toward the missive, as she dusted, she read her name.

Sitting on the stool, she pulled the letter closer, addressed to Madame Giry and dated eight days ago. Stunned, she read several paragraphs and realized it was about her Angel from a man named Nadir Kahn.

 _…I find it most regrettable, the tragedy that has befallen you, and I appeal to your sense of compassion in this matter. The man you know as the Phantom is undone, nearly destroyed. If he knew I was writing to you of his sad lot, I daresay he would be much more than simply displeased, so I implore you to keep this between the two of us. You may think he deserves this hell after all he has done, the lives he has destroyed, and perhaps you are not far from the truth. It is not my place to say or judge. However, I feel the only way in which he will make any sort of recovery and again find purpose in this world is to remain distant from Miss Daaé. For his benefit and perhaps hers as well, the two should never again meet._

 _If you think me too harsh to seek your help in this matter, think carefully on the tragedy of that night and the harm to the many inflicted. Our mutual friend was indeed to blame, his feelings for the young Miss Daaé too fierce to control, to the point of a dangerous obsession, and clearly she does not share any deep feelings for him, to abandon him as she did ..._

The letter burned, falling heedless from Christine's numb fingers.

xXx


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Thank you so much for the reviews! :) And now...**

* * *

 **Chapter V**

It had been exactly two weeks since the bitter catastrophe of the Don Juan.

Erik waited for the shadows of evening to cloak the city before striking out from the Daroga's home in search of Madame Giry. An article in _Le Petit Journal_ stated that the dormitories of the Opera House were being used for temporary lodging, but he did not find his aide or anyone else within the scorched, white walls. From a former conversation, he recalled Madame's mention of apartment housing within the vicinity and her possibility of taking a room at one in the future.

It took him less than a quarter hour to track down the humble edifice, and less time to approach the main door. He spotted Meg Giry ahead on the stairwell and followed at a distance until she entered through another door, its wood peeling in places.

"Meg?" he heard Madame Giry's voice from inside. "Have you had any luck?"

"I looked everywhere I can think to look. I even returned to the dormitories to look there, but she has well and truly disappeared."

Locked doors never presented an issue for the once-court magician and former trapdoor lover, this barrier so thin he could hear their voices through the insufficient paneling. And though they had not yet had time to turn the key to constitute any need for his lockpicks, neither did he once adapt to the social custom of knocking to announce his presence at any given time in the Opera House. Though on occasion he would give a short rap of his knuckle to Madame's office door before immediately crossing over the threshold.

A sense of urgency precluded this being one of those times.

He put a gloved hand to the latch and silently swung the door open, thus entering into the grave discussion.

"Christine is missing?"

His clipped words, full of dread, had both women whirl around in shock. Meg registered horror when she looked upon his masked face, while Madame's features showcased a mixture of relief and ire.

"Y-You're the _Phantom_ ," Meg breathed, "of the Opera."

"Are you mad?" Madame scolded softly in tandem. "Anyone could have seen you arrive, Monsieur." She moved past Erik, briefly popping her head out the door and looking both ways. "Come in, quickly, before you're noticed."

"Maman?" Meg stared at her, gawking in disbelief.

"You are well aware that I have been his aide for years, Meg. Do not act so surprised." As she spoke, she swiftly closed the door and threw the bolt into place. On so flimsy a door, he doubted the bar would matter. He certainly could dispense with its presence swiftly.

"But after all that's happened…" Meg regarded the misplaced Phantom warily, as if he might swoop down suddenly and bite her. "All that _he_ has done..."

Erik never held aught against the little dancer, showing courtesy not to target or frighten her, since she was Christine's friend and Madame Giry's daughter. But he had neither the time nor the patience for trite discussion of old issues which could never be altered.

"Christine." With a deep tone of authority, he brought the flurried discussion to a fine point. "She is missing?"

The two women shared a nervous look.

"I came home yesterday to find her gone," Madame admitted wearily and glanced at her daughter. "Meg, bring all of the letters."

"Mine too?" she asked with clear reluctance.

"Oui, yours as well."

With a suspicious look at Erik, then back to her mother, Meg trundled off to the back of the apartment, disappearing behind a curtain that acted as a wall.

"Why would she leave your home?" Erik insisted before his aide could speak. He clenched his hand into an anxious fist at his side. "How could you allow this to happen?"

"I hardly allowed it, monsieur. She slipped out into the night, while we lay sleeping."

"For what purpose would she do such an impetuous and foolish thing?" He spoke aloud, more for his benefit than hers. He paced a few steps, then back again, brimming with nervous energy. "She must have gone to seek out the boy."

"Given what I have seen between them of late, that is doubtful, Monsieur."

He brought his attention sharply back to her. "What do you mean? Cease to speak in riddles - what did you see?"

Madame Giry stepped closer, lifting her chin to look at him, her manner intent. "Tell me you have no plans to go after her. Tell me you will leave that poor girl alone, after all of what's happened."

He huffed an annoyed breath. "It might interest you to know that Christine sought me out, not the other way around."

Her eyes widened. "I had no idea – why would she do that?"

"It is immaterial at this time. All that matters is Christine's safety. Now tell me, before I lose what patience I have left, why the blazes is she not with that boy?"

She shook her head in weariness. "I wish I could tell you, Monsieur, but I simply don't know. She would have little to do with the Vicomte after the fire, refusing to see him, even to speak with him. When he insisted on a meeting, he left shortly afterward upset. I think she blamed him as well for all of what transpired that night. In that regard, she was not amiss."

The lines around her mouth faded as her expression softened. "I have seen and heard his determination to capture you. I know he trapped you, using Christine as bait. I saw the armed soldiers in position all throughout the theater, and though I am angry with you for striking out in such a manner that can never be rectified, causing such great loss and panic, I cannot blame you for defending yourself against those men. I know they would have killed you on the Vicomte's order."

Erik dropped his fingertips away from touching the mask in a customary protective gesture. Tolerance was a rare offering extended to him, and he wasn't sure how to accept it. "You are the only one, perhaps, to understand my reasons." His voice came low and deep. "I never intended to maim or destroy, only to escape."

"And the chandelier?" she asked grimly.

"A diversion - so I could do so."

"With Christine." He gave no reply and she sighed heavily. "In the many years since I saved you at the traveling circus, I have made the attempt to understand, however difficult it has been. With that said, you should never have seized her from the stage and taken her with you. Did you truly think the Vicomte and his men wouldn't give chase?"

His visible eyebrow lifted wryly. "Perhaps I spoke too soon of understanding."

She clucked her tongue against the roof of her mouth in a thoroughly scolding manner. "In light of all that has occurred, tell me, do you disagree?"

He curtailed his annoyance with her for speaking to him as to a child. She and only she had ever been what amounted to a mother to both himself and Christine, though Madame had been little more than a girl when she helped him escape imprisonment from a cage. He owed her what respect he could muster, the practice of decorum foreign to him, any knowledge of its use having been scraped up through eavesdropping behind theater walls. Never had he been taught as other children at their father's knee; never had he known a mother's encouraging embrace.

Erik shook his head grimly. "You will be pleased to learn that I made it clear to her that our association is finished."

She regarded him with a sympathetic but knowing look that chafed what little pride he could claim.

"If that is true, Maestro, why are you here now? Am I to believe that you only intended to visit me?"

Damn her meddlesome ways!

He ignored the long, level stare she gave, turning his eyes past her and hoping for the swift return of Meg and the mysterious letters. A wry tongue long part of his reclusive nature, the girl's surliness was preferable to this inquisition.

"I am relieved you did not perish," Madame said after a time.

His lips twisted in a half smirk. "It takes more than a bumbling boy and his ragtag army of foot soldiers to catch a Phantom." His years as an assassin had trained him well, with how to evade the enemy and gain access to their plans.

She sighed. "And what will you do now?"

"Find Christine." He spoke as if the answer should be obvious.

"Perhaps it would be more prudent to hire a detective."

"Leave such a crucial task to a stranger who doesn't know her as I do?" he scoffed. "Not likely."

By her frown, his answer did not please her. "And what will you do should you find her?" she insisted.

The suspicion in her tone abraded his senses. "Oh, I _will_ find her."

She winced at his firm pronouncement. "To what end, Maestro?"

"I wish only to ensure that she's safe," he repeated in clipped words. "I will not harm Christine. I will not seize her, nor will I force my attentions upon her. Never again."

She nodded, at last satisfied, though her eyes shrewdly assessed him as if to seek beneath the mask and into his mind to ascertain that he spoke the truth.

"Where will you stay with all of Paris out to capture you? Surely not in that hovel beneath the earth you call home."

"The mob's arduous renovations have made that impossible." He grimaced when he recalled the miserable state of his subterranean dwelling. "I will not be returning there."

She seemed to consider. "If you need a place to hide until you decide what to do, you may stay here. It isn't much, but you can sleep on the sofa."

"Isn't much" was too kind. The striped wallpaper was stained and peeling, in areas revealing cracks in the rotting planked walls and holes large enough for mice to hide. There was no hearth, only a stovepipe contraption in the corner that emitted little heat, not that he wasn't accustomed to frosty air or small rodents. But this pathetic excuse for a habitat was confined enough for two people.

"Thank you for your offer, but no. I have a place."

She studied him in avid curiosity, but he divulged nothing more. Even with her acquaintance of their many years at the opera house, he would keep some of his secrets.

A creak of the floorboards heralded Meg's stilted approach. She awarded him another hostile glance before handing a set of letters to her mother.

Immediately he held his hand out for them. To his irritation, Madame hesitated as if suddenly having doubts, but at last handed them over. The creamy wax seal was broken on the first, and he unfolded the single page. The missive was brief, to the point, the sweeping curl of elegantly-written words thanking Madame Giry for all she'd been to Christine over the years, the gist of the missive stating she must now find her own way and not to worry. Nothing else, save for a closing line that she would somehow make contact once she found herself settled.

Lips compressed in a tight line, he swiftly folded up the missive and moved to the next.

"Maman…" Meg murmured in objection.

He did no more than briefly roll his eyes the girl's way before lifting the broken seal and unfolding the letter.

"It's alright, Meg," her mother reassured.

This letter also gave no pertinent information. He quickly skimmed the foreign phrases of friendship and sisterhood, not truly understanding any of it, but knowing that Christine had a close association with the fair-haired dancer who scowled nervously at him. A short line followed asking forgiveness for leaving without telling anyone, with Christine promising she would contact Meg in the future, stating gratitude for the years they shared in the ballet and as dormitory mates. No more than that.

He folded up the letter and handed it back to young Giry. "My thanks," he said earnestly. He would never have demanded to see the note if he did not feel it significant to gathering information to find Christine.

Meg looked taken aback by his quiet civility and blinked a couple of times as if in a sudden stupor, before she took the letter from his hand.

He started to hand Madame her letter as well, then felt as if he'd been punched in the gut to realize there was a third folded letter, the sticky wax seal having adhered to Madame's farewell missive. No doubt the third note was for that impudent boy.

With a grimace, he turned the parchment over, having no compunction to spy. A thin stiletto of despair stabbed his heart, and he sucked in a sharp, disbelieving breath, barely able to conceive what he read.

On the front, penned in her flowery script, was one word:

 _Angel_

She had written … to _him?_

Time seemed to stop, then warp and bend, he a marionette to its controlling strings. How long he stood there staring fixedly at the sealed page he had no clue, but the shifting of feet scraping on wood snapped him out of his daze. He wished to flee the tiny, cramped apartment and seek out somewhere private to absorb the treasured contents, but felt unable to move, as if the soles of his shoes were cemented to the floorboards.

No doubt, she wished to bid him a final farewell, to put words into ink this time and state that she never wished to see him again. Especially this wretched face, masked or ummasked, that surely had contributed to her most terrifying nightmares.

His fingers clutched the paper more tightly, causing it to crinkle in his hand. Still he made no move to break the wax seal. Her words were hidden within vellum, safe, but once they rose to the surface, they were certain to chisel yet another path of misery through his cold, stone heart…

Surely, all that he deserved.

"Meg, come along to the kitchenette and help me with the tea. You will stay, Monsieur?"

Madame didn't wait for his agreement, nor did he give it. She swept from the room, Meg following, but not before giving him another mistrustful look he caught from the corner of his eye, which never left the folded sheet.

His fingers lightly tingled even as his pulse pounded furiously with dread.

Expelling a slow, fierce breath, he took the candlestick from the mantle and moved to the short sofa, no longer feeling his legs could support him. Placing the candle on the overturned crate used as an end table, he sank to the edge of the stiff horsehair cushion not designed for comfort.

Hooking a long, trembling finger beneath the flap, he broke the seal.

While both the Girys' notes were composed of no more than a few paragraphs, he sucked in a stunned breath to note that two full pages composed the missive left for him.

 _I have no idea if or when you will even receive this letter. From the words you last spoke to me, it is unlikely, but I find I cannot leave Paris without first penning my thoughts to paper. Even if you never read this, it is my hope that by writing these words I may at last be able to let go, for I have come to the conclusion that is the only way to move forward with whatever the future holds for me._

 _What I will never forget is the first time an Angel sang to me, when I was frightened and lonely in the chapel. I was miserable with grief, but your song stilled my tears. I knew you were not my Papa, despite what others believed I thought, but for so many of our years together, you filled the empty place left inside of me. Your song filled my dreams through many troubled nights. I could never forget your voice or your eyes as they looked so deeply into mine, reaching into my soul. The compositions of your songs were both passionate and beautiful. These things, I will never forget._

 _What I wish I could forget is how I was again deceived, this time bringing no one happiness, only overall misery. I wish I would not have been so easily persuaded, to agree to a plot that brought harm and disaster to everyone involved, but most expressly, how heartbroken I am that I turned on you, my genius teacher, the only one to ever believe in me so strongly and give me such wonderful guidance and encouragement. I have become a great disappointment to you, and for that I am truly sorry._

Moisture pricked the back of his eyes and he blinked furiously, shuffling to the next page.

 _I never wished to betray you. I only wanted the hatred and accidents to cease, and I was convinced through others that your capture was the only way to make that happen. Once I saw you walk onstage, everything inside told me that I'd made a terrible mistake. But it was too late to go back. I tore your mask away, hoping you would escape and hide from those soldiers hired to catch you, and for no other reason. I never wished to cause you more grief or humiliation, or anger you in any way._

 _I fail to understand why you believe you must kill and create mass destruction, and it is that part of you that makes me want to run from your presence, not your face as you have always believed. I tried to tell you that night, and it seemed for a brief time you understood, but then the Vicomte arrived, and all explanations were lost as tensions ran even higher and you became so violent. It is these horrors that I hope one day to forget, but I don't believe there are enough days and nights that time could string together to make that possible._

 _I know you think me no more than a vain and selfish child, and perhaps you are not mistaken. For all the pain I have caused you, I am truly sorry. I tried to tell you all of this that same night when I came again to see you, but we were both too upset to see reason, and I could barely make sense with what I did say._

 _I wish for you nothing but happiness. You deserve that, despite all of what's happened. I still don't understand much of the past; perhaps I never will. However, I will always be grateful to you for taking a small girl under your wing and giving her voice flight._

 _This, I will never forget. Always, I will remember my Angel._

 _Please, if ever you think of me, think of me fondly -  
_

 _~ Christine_

Two splashes of dried moisture christened her final farewell. He ran a gentle fingertip along the faded spots of vellum then lifted his head to stare distantly at the peeling wall, that same token of despair slipping wetly against his cheeks.

xXx

Madame Giry hurried to replace the kettle on the stove and opened the small door to stoke the low flame. Behind her, Meg fidgeted near the table in a flurry of suppressed frustration.

"Why did you invite him to stay?" she asked, none too softly.

Her mother began to spoon tea leaves into three cups. "Break the crumpet into bits and put them on a plate. Pity we have only the one remaining."

Meg groaned in protest. "You would give him what little of our food is left too? Why are we not seeking out the authorities – why are you not instructing me to leave here and alert the gendarmes?"

"Meg, enough. He will hear you."

Meg darted a cautious look toward the door then back toward her mother.

With paper-thin walls and their unexpected guest in the next room, neither wanted the ex-Opera Ghost to hear what they had to say.

"Then you _do_ wish me to go for help?"

"What I wish is for your silence, daughter, along with your understanding."

" _Understanding_!" Meg spat quietly. "How can you ask such a thing – he murdered Piangi and others! He destroyed our livelihood and our home. I work in a dirty, cheap bistro now because of him. Why should we treat him as a favored guest?"

Madame shook her head impatiently. "Meg, how many times have I told you _not_ to speak of that which you _think_ you know. It isn't always the entire story. I have taught you that prudent silence is often the wisest course. Do not be so critical of what you fail to understand."

Meg blinked in disbelief, tearing into the crumpet as if it were the source of all her woes. "I cannot believe I'm hearing this – that you are again _defending_ him, regardless that you once worked for him. Christine's constant defense comes as no surprise, nor did her insistence to go back to his cave. He was her teacher and supposed angel. But you -" Instantly Meg stopped her mini tirade as if just aware of what she said. She darted a glance to her mother, then dropped it to the pulverized crumpet, now resembling no more than a plate of crumbs.

"Meg- what are you saying?" Madame turned from grabbing a cup from the shelf and set it onto the saucer with a rapid clink. "Christine went _back there?_ When?" Erik had told her they'd spoken, but she didn't realize the girl had taken the perilous trek to his home to do so.

Meg bore the look of a remorseful traitor. "It was only that one night, the night of the fire," she amended hastily. "I caught her when she tried to sneak back in."

So, Christine had braved any stragglers of the violent mob to go through with her impulsive visit. Madame shook her head at such foolishness.

"Why did you not tell me this sooner?"

"She asked me not to. She didn't want to upset you had you known she had gone there alone." Surprised realization flickered in Meg's eyes. "You don't think…?"

"Where else, Meg? I doubt she had a substantial amount to take a train, much less secure a place to live, and his lair would provide the hideout needed. If she went there once, alone, she might do so again."

Meg's brows furrowed pensively. "No, I don't think she would. He _told_ her to go – she said that he wanted nothing more to do with her. He even left her standing there, stating he was never coming back and that it was no longer his home."

"Did he?" Madame cast a curious glance toward the door that separated them from their guest.

Things were beginning to fall into place that prior to this evening made scant logic. Had the characteristically reserved Erik shared all of this with his friend, Nadir Khan? If so, the letter she received from the Maestro's acquaintance days ago made more sense. She had not yet then decided if she would aid in such deceit, but Christine's disappearance changed everything. If Erik with his genius skills could find the headstrong girl, who had never been alone for long or needed to fend for herself a day in her life, so much the better.

"Judging on what you told me, it is doubtful she would have gone underground," Madame at last agreed. She certainly wouldn't risk Erik's ire after he'd thrown her out once. At least she hoped Christine had the sense to stay away from there.

"A good thing too," Meg all but whispered. "She certainly doesn't need to get involved with the likes _of him_ again. I hope she told him in that letter to leave her alone for good."

Madame sighed, resigned that her daughter was determined to hold a grudge.

"There is much you don't understand, Meg, that isn't my place to tell you. However, do realize that the Maestro wasn't entirely at fault for the devastation that lay waste to the opera house. The Vicomte stirred the managers' ire, with his tenacity to catch a ghost. Let's not forget that."

"As if I ever would. The Vicomte was perhaps the only one who sought to do what was right and rid our theatre of an extortionist. Even Christine made the attempt to do what was necessary at the end by aiding in the Phantom's capture."

"A ruse she came to regret, and do not tell me otherwise. I know she spoke with you about it on more than one occasion."

Meg gave a disgruntled little huff. "I only wish I knew what she'd written in that letter! I mean, he read _ours;_ isn't it only fair to request the same?"

"Meg, enough," Madame said in mild rebuke, sometimes feeling as if she was dealing with a ten-year old child and not a daughter of sixteen.

Meg's lower lip stuck out in a pout. "I wish you would have broken the seal like I suggested then resealed it after we read it. Do you really think that if Christine told him where she was going he would share that information with us?"

Madame could only hope he would award her the same courtesy, but in truth, she had no clue. Erik must know that she had directed the Vicomte in how to find them, adding her own form of betrayal, though at the time she could only think to ensure Christine's safety from the vicious mob. The Opera Ghost, she felt sure would be capable of evading his enemies, and he had not proved her wrong.

The kettle began its shrill whistle to announce the water was heated through, and the Girys' hushed discussion was put on hold. They hurried to finish placing the tea things on a tray, Meg setting the unappealing plate of crumbs aside, and both women stepped back into the small parlor….

…to find it empty.

Madame set the tray down on the table and rushed to the front door, opening it to peer both ways but finding no sign of their escaped guest.

"Maman…?"

The tremor in her daughter's voice, of befuddlement and disbelief, brought Madame's head sharply around.

Meg stared with stunned surprise at the appearance of an envelope she had plucked from the overturned crate...and fanned out the numerous thousand-franc banknotes stuffed within, so her mother could see.

It appeared that much more than their lost salary had been replaced, and Madame sank to the sofa, speechless with shock.

* * *

 **A/N: The Phantom strikes again! Muahaha! ;-)  
**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Thank you so much for the reviews! :) They are appreciated!  
**

 **And now ...**

* * *

 **Chapter VI**

On the afternoon Christine read Madame's telling letter from the man, Nadir Khan, she went to her room and packed what little she owned into the carpetbag she first carried on her arrival as a child to the Paris Opera House conservatoire. Into its nubby interior, she included her locked box of money, the key to which she slipped inside one of a pair of well-worn gloves. Lastly, she packed her most prized possession of her father's violin, protectively held within a hard leather case and cushioned by her spare change of clothes: one shirtwaist, one skirt, and one extra pair of black stockings. She sat at Madame Giry's desk and penned four separate letters, one to Madame, one to Meg, one to Raoul, and the last…

She sighed with the loss, and a tear rolled down her cheek as she signed the closing lines. He had never told her his name, wishing instead to cut all ties with her. Her presence in the lives of those she loved had brought nothing but heartache and misery, the worst of it to the man she once called her Angel, and Monsieur Khan's cautionary letter to Madame Giry proved it. Christine felt she had no choice but to leave and find a life elsewhere. For the sake of those she loved, for her own peace of mind, she must go.

But what locale could give her a tranquil existence when the true source of her angst dwelt inside her soul?

For the remainder of the evening, Christine was withdrawn, speaking only when addressed. However, Meg, who assumed Christine's distress focused on her inability to find work, soon had her giggling over little absurdities in that silly way Meg had to take her mind off their problems. Of course, Meg had returned home with news of finding work in a bistro, so she had just cause to feel cheerful.

"Really, Meg, I highly doubt that the baker put sand in the _macarons."_

"No? I wouldn't put it past him, as a way to extend his reserves; they certainly are gritty enough. I thought I was sanding my teeth when I chewed the first bite!"

Christine let out a gurgle of repressed laughter. Oh, how she would miss her dear, quirky friend...

Once everyone retired for the evening, Christine lay awake, unable to sleep until late in the night, and then only fitfully. When morning dawned and Madame readied her basket to deliver basted clothing to the seamstress for whom she worked, while Meg finished her _tartine_ of butter and jam before also leaving for her new job, Christine's heart bade them a tearful farewell, though she managed to smile and converse, not wanting them to become suspicious. Her hug to Meg might have lasted seconds longer than usual, but Meg thankfully didn't seem to notice anything out of the ordinary. As she customarily bade them a good day and hoped for their success, Christine silently extended those wishes to cover them for the remainder of their lives.

She brushed irksome tears from her lashes that formed once the door closed and hurried to collect her letters, propping them on the kitchen table, where she was sure they would be found. She smothered the low fire in the coal stove with a scoop from the ash bucket then donned her Angel's cloak and fastened it securely, afterwards wrapping her scarf around her head. Once she collected her carpetbag, she barely offered a final glance around the room that had only just become home, her heart heavy at leaving those who resided there.

It was for the best. Theirs and hers. She knew it was. Yet the prospect was so difficult. Never had she struggled to live alone; always there had been someone to guide her. From her father, to Madame Giry, to her Angel. She had never needed to construct a living, or live in a self-imposed solitude to manage one.

And the thought _terrified_ her.

On her way to the station and only God knew where, water began to pour from the sky. She had been too distracted to take notice of the gathering storm clouds and groaned in dismay. Hurrying to stand under the stoop of a tobacconist shop, she took temporary shelter from the light shower that quickly turned into a torrent. Blast! She should have hired a cab, but had refrained, needing to strictly manage every coin she possessed.

Looking up and down the street, she spotted no carriage to hail, and was surprised to recognize her surroundings. During her mind's frantic meandering, had her feet subconsciously led her into familiar territory? Around the next corner and half a block down stood the ravaged building she had called home for more than half her life. Above the obstruction of rooftops, she made out the winged statue on the right topmost corner as lightning lit up the sky behind the figure of a Pegasus frozen in mid-leap.

Home…and yet never again could it be so.

She made no conscious decision. No deliberation of thought. But in the instant the storm abated, she found herself hurrying down the wet, cobbled streets, finally to slip through the back door of the theatre, surprised and grateful to find it unbarred.

Mortals had long abandoned these premises, no longer to walk its halls, leaving behind only phantoms to haunt and remind her of bygone days. Though the Ghost she would wish to see was there no more. He had abandoned his post, his dark, mellifluous voice never again to reverberate through the rafters. Never again to sing so sweetly in her mind or lodge so deeply within her soul. Those memories were now only bittersweet shadows to lend to her dismay.

The pervasive smell of smoke lingered in the musty air. The heavy stage curtains had burned away, the fiery carnage taking with it all that was within a broad circle of the fallen chandelier. She frowned to see such devastation and carefully stepped round the debris and past the hull of what remained of the once lush theatre, intent on reaching her former dressing room. The flames had licked the corridor there, the paper burned away from the blackened walls and the rose paint bubbled and charred on the double doors. But upon forcing the door to give way, inside her old dressing chamber she found little damage, the fire put to death before it could wreak further havoc. Save for the acrid smell of smoke that saturated everything in the room, the chamber was whole…as was the full length mirror that stood glistening against one wall.

The pungent air aggravated her dry throat and she coughed, wishing for a drink too soothe it. She moved to the looking glass and stood there a moment, taking note of her troubled reflection. The pallid face that stared back from within the glass was youthful and apprehensive, the eyes wide and uncertain, the cheeks rosy from her long trek - all of it an anomaly since she felt eons old.

They would search for her, once they returned and found the letters. She still had little idea of how to proceed, having dwelled more on the past she had been ordered to forget more than the future she must consider. Where on this earth should she go? _Where_?

An orphan with no family, save for distant cousins in Sweden she had never met, she had no true home to find sanctuary. Even if she chose to travel to her mother's homeland, completely foreign to her, she could never afford the fare. Nearly her entire life was spent within these walls, and the thought of traveling alone, outside of Paris, petrified her. She had never even seen all of _this_ city, and nervously wavered with what to do. There was Perros-Guierec, she supposed, but her time there as a small child had been brief, and their tiny cottage by the sea had been seized by creditors upon her father's death. She retained few memories of those carefree days, but she'd fondly told both Girys of her life there with Papa, and the seaside resort had been where she first met Raoul. They were sure to look there, if they ignored her written pleas not to search for her…no, Perros-Guierec was out of the question.

Perhaps her rash decision to flee without telling anyone had been yet another mistake to add to her troubled history of errors. But what choice did she have? She had become a stigma of burden, a pariah to avoid. Even should she change her name, her face was recognizable from those wretched posters plastered all over Paris, announcing the production of the Don Juan Triumphant. She had learned firsthand just how far scandal could reach, with her failure to find work in the city.

The cellars would be cool, free of smoke, and no one would think to look for her there. Not after all that happened in this theatre. All of what she had so foolishly begun.

He was gone, never to return. And she needed a temporary refuge, to take the time to consider where her new home should be.

She picked up and lit the lantern left just inside the mirror, closing the reflective door and replacing the inside latch, before setting along a familiar path. Since the night her Angel had first taken her through this maze of cellars, they met several times more, always in the night for her lessons. She had returned to him, her teacher, as he had asked of her at the Bal Masque. But Raoul had grown suspect of her nervous behavior, often asking what she was hiding, and eventually kept guard outside her bedroom door, fearful for her safety and watching every move she made, making it impossible to visit further with her Angel. Until the morning she slipped away to the cemetery to visit her father's grave and to her shock, had found him there. But Raoul followed her once again, and that day, as every day following, had ended in disaster.

Christine frowned. Why had she never asked his name, once she realized he was a man? Was he right about that too? Was she such a child that she had only wished to continue with the fantasy? Fear to upset the familiar and venture into the unknown had certainly been a driving factor to keep her bound to childish ideals…

And paradoxically, now she traversed that ignorantly chosen path through this life that was no longer familiar.

She had watched her Angel during their handful of journeys below, barely able to take her eyes off of his tall, cloaked form, and so was knowledgeable about the two levers to pull to disable the traps and make the path safe. Soon she reached the subterranean lake where his elaborate gondola once waited and which she'd left outside the caverns, hidden on the bank in a copse of trees. A small rowboat was moored there, for Madame Giry's use he once told her, and Christine found it much easier to maneuver with two oars than an awkward pole almost twice as tall as she.

The sight of the abandoned alcove, its portcullis raised, brought tears to sting her eyes. She impatiently brushed the burgeoning moisture away with her sleeve and rowed into the gaping black hole of empty darkness. The flame from her lantern gave off only a modicum of light, bouncing off cavern walls and casting tall shadows that danced in an eerie flicker, to glimmer off once familiar objects in a frightful manner that made them oddly indistinguishable. Wisps of ghostly mist curled up from the surface of still, dark water, the dip and slosh of oars the only sound audible in the cold chamber.

Once the rowboat was tied safely to a tall, heavy candlestick, Christine lit enough candles throughout the cave to bring a gentle, calming glow over the Phantom's lair, which was still in an utter state of chaos, as she had left it.

She ascended the trio of steps to stand in front of his shattered organ, tenderly touching what was left of a row of black and yellowed keys stained with smears of crusted brown, as if he had bled into them. His music was his life, and she could imagine him sitting here for hours on end, pouring out his passion and his heartache onto the slender blocks of ivory, creating notes that tore through the fibers of one's soul…

Her tears splashed onto a key, diluting the stain there, and with her finger and short nail, she irritably wiped and scratched away as much of the telltale smear as she could.

 _She_ had caused his soul to bleed.

How was she supposed to live with that?

She turned away from the damaged organ to cast her despondent gaze over the demolished room.

The urgent need to remedy what could be managed overtook her rationale - for the one to whom she owed restitution wouldn't see her paltry token of recompense. Nonetheless, she set down her carpetbag, removed her scarf and his cloak, and immediately set to work. In one corner she found a broom of twigs tied with rope and used it to sweep away broken glass into the lake. She righted fallen candlesticks and statues of bronze, those not too heavy to manage, piling what broken furniture she could carry into a corner, and doing all she could to set his lair to rights. The tapestries she let fall back over what remained of the shattered mirrors, and a sheet she threw over the ruined organ, its presence a continual accusation.

Yes, it was foolish; the owner was not likely to return to see. But it helped somewhat to ease the steady, dull pain in her heart, to have his home returned as much as possible to its previous state.

During her whirlwind cleaning, she came across an iron box kept in the shallow part of the lake, and there found a wheel of cheese, a few apples, and what looked like the remnants of cooked poultry on a plate. She tore off a hunk of the cheese, also finding a bottle of wine and a glass. Her mouth parched, she poured herself a glass, and drank deeply, then collected her carpetbag and sank to the chair beside his mini theatre to rest.

As she nibbled the cheese and drank the wine, she retrieved her sack of saved coins from the locked box. Pouring them onto the table's surface, she frowned. There were not as many there as she remembered, and at once she recalled the fripperies purchased for a gala she attended with Raoul. A lace handkerchief, silk stockings, long white gloves, heeled satin slippers, even the velvet and satin dress of a noblewoman she had borrowed from the costume room – and none of it mattered one whit how splendidly she had clothed herself or how much she had attempted to pass as a lady of refinement. His acquaintances still had regarded her as beneath their status, the women especially treating her beastly when the Vicomte wasn't in attendance beside her.

Separating the coins into three paltry stacks - one for travel, one for room and board, one for food - Christine quickly saw that she barely had enough to provide for a month, and only if she was careful. But where could she go on such a measly sum? How would she live?

With what little she could spare for a train, she realized she would need to stay in France. But France had many cities, many villages, to lose herself in one of them, did it not? She could attempt to locate work using her greatest skill - her voice - though she wondered how far the Don Juan scandal had spread. She knew next to nothing about sewing or laundering; there had been servants at the opera house for those duties. Nor could she cook, except to make tea, which the Girys often heated when hunger gnawed and food was scarce. There was one other possibility, a slim one…

She could teach.

For ten years she had been taught by the most superlative of instructors and had retained all the knowledge he imparted to her. She could teach others to sing. And to broaden her services…

She pulled her Papa's violin from the carpetbag and set the case on her knees, unlocking the clasps. She had often watched him play with childish wonder, and in the evenings, on occasion, he would satisfy her curiosity and place her fingers on the strings, showing her the correct angle to hold the instrument and slide the bow. Her attempts had been pathetic, of course, the span of her tiny fingers too small to play well, but her father's unending patience and encouraging praises made her feel like a miniature virtuoso.

She frowned to see the condition of the bow after so many years of disuse. The horsehair had disintegrated and would need replaced. She plucked at the strings of catgut that were looser than they should be - the instrument needed tuned and possibly new strings added as well. Yet she could hardly afford the francs to have such extensive work done.

With a sigh of dismay, she carefully tucked the violin and bow back into their protective case. She snapped the lid shut, in the process her elbow hitting the bottle of wine and knocking it over.

"Horrors!" she gasped, jumping up from the chair before the fast-flowing stream of crimson could drip onto her clothes.

Quickly she righted the bottle and grabbed up a nearby cloth covered with streaks of dried paint. She dabbed at the table and the mini stage, mopping up the liquid as best she could. Pulling away a swatch of plush velvet that had not escaped the spill, she was surprised to find underneath a handle built into the table, the rectangular crevice around it suggesting a hidden space beneath.

She should not intrude; it wasn't right. But logic told her he was never coming back. He _said_ he was never coming back, that his time here had reached its conclusion. More than a week had elapsed since their final, wretched encounter, and he had left all his possessions behind, wanting to start afresh. Just as she must do.

Those things she told herself; still she hesitated. Curiosity poked at her conscience that warned her to leave well enough alone, until tentatively she found herself slipping her fingers through the metal ring and lifting the handle. The cover came completely away, and she looked with furrowed brows at the rectangle of wood in her hand, thinking she had broken it. But no, it seemed _designed_ that way…

Nervously running the tip of her tongue over her lip, she peeked inside. It was too dark too see what was contained within, the alcove deep, and she grabbed her lantern, bringing it close.

Inside were rolls of paper, tied together with black velvet cording, and she was curious to see a violet ribbon. She pulled it out, wrapping the satin streamer loosely around her index finger. A memory came from nowhere:

She had been a child of ten, playing hideaway with Meg, each taking turns hiding for the other to find them. Rehearsals had been canceled for the day, many of the cast and crew taking advantage of the unexpected free hours, and the girls had had carte blanche over the empty stage and auditorium. Somewhere in the course of their fun as she darted behind the upholstered chairs and hid from her pursuer in play, Christine had lost one of her two violet ribbons. A quick search did not produce the narrow slip of satin, and as their game resumed, she soon forgot its absence.

Was this that same ribbon?

She looked further into the cubbyhole. A faded rose, near to crumbling, a button that looked vaguely familiar – and a white glove, similar to the pair she'd worn for the Christmas gala on her sixteenth year. She recalled that she misplaced one at some point of the evening, and Meg had laughingly chided her for always having her head in the clouds.

A mist of tears wet Christine's eyes. Had her Angel kept these as mementos to remember her by? If she had been so important to him, even then, why had he waited so long to come forward as a man, once she had become a woman?

Shaking her head at the frustration of questions never to be answered, she pulled one of the paper rolls out, her eyes widening to see that they were franc notes. This was evidently where he stored those treasures significant to him, and she gasped to see how thick the roll was. She slipped the cording off and thumbed through the banknotes – 20,000 francs – and she felt certain that the other fat paper rolls contained the same amount. She recalled what Madame Giry told the new managers on the day of their arrival -

 _'He welcomes you to his opera house – and commands that you leave Box Five empty for his use and reminds you that his salary is due…Monsieur Lefevre paid him twenty thousand francs a month…'_

What she held must be what the Phantom extorted from the managers. Upon further inspection of the cubbyhole, she also found three drawstring pouches – each filled with gold napoleons.

She had never seen so much money in her life, and the lure of it in her hands prodded her quite viciously. Had he actually left such vast wealth behind forever? His parting words led her to believe he wished only to get as far away from her as possible, but would he not need this money to travel? Nearly two weeks had come and gone, and he had not returned for it yet. Perhaps, after all he suffered, with her betrayal and the obliteration of the musical association they both had cherished, to say nothing of the condemned opera house, he now felt the money was cursed. Perhaps he no longer wanted it…

Astonished at the path her wicked mind traveled, she dropped the roll of bills and pouch of coins into the alcove as if they burned her. Quickly she replaced the cover before temptation lured her to do what she mustn't.

She drank more wine, soon feeling lethargic. Surprised to see she had almost finished the entire bottle, she decided to lie down and sleep.

Christine found a blanket to throw over the slashed bedding, also a victim to the mob, and used his cloak to cover herself. Perhaps she should stay a little while longer and give herself the time needed to better chart her course.

And perhaps…perhaps, he might return for his funds, and she could then ask him to help her leave Paris. Perhaps he would no longer be angry and might agree to do this one last thing for her.

She would no longer beg him to stay; she had no wish to bring him further pain. But she felt at a total loss with the steps she must take to begin a productive life, independent of others. Never had she been entirely without support, and she needed the guidance of her Angel to advise her. Nothing more…

He was a genius who had lived his life in solitude. Who better to give her wise counsel?

x

Over what she assumed was three days, according to the grandfather clock that stood against a far wall, Christine wandered through the lair, inspecting this and that to pass the time. She found a small, thick leather book, and at first glance, she thought it was a journal. But upon tentatively opening the cover, she observed drawings of places, with names scratched beneath in his loping hand, pages of flora and of fauna, and images of herself. Pen and ink drawings of Christine as a girl, much simpler than those more recent depictions she found tacked to the cavern wall.

At every splash, every creak and thud, she turned swiftly. Always anxious and expectant, always dismayed to find she was still alone. The noise turned out to be common occurrences of dwelling within the cluttered lake cavern, at times due to the shifting of objects she had not placed exactly right, other times made by some unknown creature in the water.

She found a leather folio of hand drawn maps, one displaying France. Finding a small sheaf of paper he must have used to pen his notes, she studied the surrounding cities, all of them seeming too close, and broadened her horizon. She jotted down two then recognized the name of a seaport town he had penned in his book of drawings. The sketch had been quite lovely; certainly worthy of a home to build a life. Again taking the pen, she dipped its nib in the ink and wrote the town's name on the top page of a sheaf of paper, circling it. The distance did not seem too far – only a line as long as her index finger – certainly she had the fare to make it there, but what if she did not...

Her gaze wickedly strayed to the small brass handle that beckoned.

Chances were strong that he would never be back to reclaim his assets, having washed his hands of all that belonged to this life as the Phantom. But if he _did_ return at some point - it wouldn't be stealing if she left a note that she would repay the debt as soon as she was able, by sending the amount owed through Madame Giry…would it?

She wouldn't take much; she wasn't greedy. Only enough to replace what she'd spent on those foolish fripperies, all of which had been left behind at the theatre, their reminder of her crass insensitivity, to so thoughtlessly abandon him and cater exclusively to the Vicomte, causing a bitter ache to throb inside her soul. At the time she had been apprehensive to be near her Maestro, after all his lies, but it all seemed so pointless now.

She had been such a ninny, both pride and fear keeping her distant, and on the night of the Bal Masque, in front of all who were present, he arrived down the stairs and told her so.

She wished she could turn back the clock, but even then, she could not give him the answers he had been seeking, not when she still felt so horribly confused. He was a _murderer,_ an arsonist, a destroyer of all things good -

 _No_ , her heart whispered, _not all things good. He_ _was also your Angel._

Each time Christine remembered the substantial havoc he had visited upon the theatre, the great amount of suffering and the tears, her heart countered to force her to recall the many kindness he had bestowed upon her, and the untold delight she once felt to be in his presence...

Once the food dwindled to almost nothing, she knew she couldn't extend her stay in these caverns any longer. She was foolish to wish it, perhaps, but in part she had lingered with the faint hope that her Angel would appear to her one last time.

 **xXx**

* * *

 **A/N: No Erik in this chapter, I know - you'll see him in the next one, I promise. ;-)**


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: Thank you so much for the reviews and interest in this story - welcome to my new readers! :) And now...**

* * *

 **Chapter VII**

Once the Phantom left the Girys' flat, leaving behind a substantial amount to see them through for many months to come – money long-owed to Madame for services rendered – he tugged his hat down low and his collar up high, so the mask Christine returned to him was hidden from prominent view. He detested seeing his former aide and her daughter abide in squalor, the regret more vividly felt since he was the cause.

For a number of years, he demanded a generous salary from the managers for his expert advice and occasional artistic renderings for set designs and costumes. At first he deemed it necessary to collect the exorbitant amount for his dream of securing land and a home, a home he then hoped one day to share with Christine. The chateau he now possessed, secured by unexpected means without a need for extortion. A manor for which he had not asked or wanted, but chose to accept and renovate for his reclusive preferences and her feminine comforts. He almost regretted the decision. Nothing had changed, save for the locale and the number of chambers above ground in which he would have to rattle about. A feared spectre, destined always to live a solitary existence, _that_ was the extent of his fate. A blind woman might be forgiving of his loathsome flaws, but Christine had torn out his heart and taken it with her, along with destroying his trust. For him, there could be no other...

He had loved against reason, at great casualty to them both. The music of the night was finished.

The Phantom entered the Fifth Cellar of his sanctuary and prison and noticed immediately that someone had been there…

Perhaps still was.

He scanned the perimeter of the tidied lake room with grim astonishment. The intruder was no enemy. What foe would sweep away the mess and straighten the clutter? The pathetic remains of his pipe organ was covered with a sheet and a thick coverlet lay spread over the slashed bed, the slight depression bearing the imprint of one who had recently lain there. He detected the faintest of sweet floral scents and grabbed a corner of the gold satin, bringing it to his nose and acknowledging that his assessment was correct. His eyes fell shut with a tantalizing memory: skin like velvet and redolent with roses … silken hair perfumed with the scent that belonged to dainty purple blossoms… rosewater and lilacs ...

 _Christine._

His heart lurched at the realization that she'd been there, had returned after he so callously abandoned her. Despite his abrasive words that he never wished to see her again, another deception harshly felt, she had _come back_ …

The frantic beats of his heart slowed to a despairing rhythm when logic interfered and recalled her letter of farewell. She had not arrived to this place of former torments and temptations to seek out his company; no, she had come, because she thought the Opera Ghost would no longer be in residence, as he'd told her. Perhaps she had also used the caverns as he once had - as a place to think, to hide, to plan…

When problems in her girlhood loomed insurmountable, even when overwhelmed with too much excitement, she had often escaped the frenetic world of the theatre to withdraw to a place of solitude and meditate. Usually her brief wanderings led her to the chapel, where he then joined her, sight unseen, on occasion alerting her to his presence, other times spying in quiet adoration. Ever since the night, as a tiny girl, she'd sought out her Angel of Music, and the Phantom, unable to resist her muffled, pitiful cries reached out to her from beyond the shielding wall. It had been one of the rare occasions he acted without thinking – but despite tragic events of recent weeks, he could never consider answering her plea a mistake. She had found sweet solace and a teacher for her voice. An 'Angel' in whom to confide. He had found true purpose and a reason to live, the years before her arrival having created only untold death and darkness.

No matter that it was futile, sensing she had already gone, the Phantom did a thorough search of his cavern dwelling. He did not stop there, but traversed the secret passageways in all the cellars, apprehensive of traps he designed that could snatch the unwary, if indeed she had taken the route from the mirror door. Once he realized he was the only underground inhabitant of the cellars, he somberly returned to his former lair.

What he would have done if he found her, he was uncertain. Perhaps tried to make her see reason, even if to do so would invite more pain, revealing that he still _did_ care. In her letter to him, she made clear that she wished to forget the past and separate herself from everyone associated with the opera house, to find some place to start anew. And while he understood the sentiment – had he not said the same to her? – Christine was not world-wise in knowledge or experience. Always she'd had everything handed to her – shelter, food, clothing, as well as what trifles Erik secretly bestowed now and then without her being aware. Her modest wages earned through the dance had been unnecessary to provide what was fundamental, the arrangement for housing made with the management part of the unwritten contract. Had she sung for the masses as lead diva as they both wished, she would have received a salary to reflect her rise in status, but his retaliation of rage put a swift end to _all_ long-held dreams.

Christine never needed to fend for herself without someone to lead, would not know how to begin. He was to blame for all of what happened and must find her, if only to ensure that she was well. How to embark on such a mission, he felt uncertain. The fraction of his sullied conscience that knew remorse for his deception warned that he should not follow through with a similar scheme of pretense. No, the Angel had been put to death the moment he opened to her the mirror leading into his world. Yet disguises were plentiful, and he was a master with how to use them to his advantage...

First, he must find her. Then he would plot his next move.

The Opera House and its cellars he knew as if the stone and wood and plaster were part of him - had she been hidden within, he would have already found her. But the entire city of Paris, save for those places seldom visited on the rare shopping excursion, remained unfamiliar.

He went to the table that held the small replica of the stage to retrieve his funds. A rectangle of white caught his eye. No thin black border had been painted around its edge, no skull of red wax closed the missive together, but he recognized the paper used for his notes to the management. A dollop of white candle wax sealed the back edges. No name of Angel or Phantom had been beautifully scrawled across the front this time, but then there was no need.

Swallowing hard, he opened the flap and for the second time that day read the graceful handwriting within:

 _Angel –_

 _You told me you would never return after all that has happened between us, and perhaps this, too, that I have done is wrong. I didn't know who else to turn to, who would approve of my decision and not hinder it, but I find I must leave Paris and make a new life for myself. I thought, after all you said, you might be the only one to understand. Of course you're not here; I don't know why I thought otherwise. In all likelihood you will never read this, if you truly have no plan to come back, even to collect your things, and it is for that reason I did what I did. If perchance you do return and are now reading this, I must tell you that I borrowed money. I spilled some wine and found your cache, quite by accident– so am writing this to vow to you that I will repay the 5,000 francs I took as soon as I find work and receive payment. Please consider this an I.O.U. I will send the funds through Madame Giry as soon as I am able. I never meant to steal from you, but I didn't know what else to do._

 _Please forgive me. I hope, deep in my heart, that you find the peace you seek. If you should think of me, think of me fondly and remember only the happy times we shared. I shall never forget. As ever -_

 _Christine_

Shaken, he lowered the note and looked at the wall opposite, where myriad Christines stared back, some pensive, some smiling, from his pen and ink renderings and charcoal sketches.

Five thousand francs. She had taken five thousand francs of his stashed wealth…

Why in God's name had she not taken more? Why had she not taken a full roll of 20,000 francs? He would have gladly given her that, beyond that, whatever else she needed. What little sum she took was paltry and wouldn't last long, not when embarking on the grueling task of starting over within a new foundation of her existence. Nor did he wish for one centime of the money back.

As he pondered these truths, the Phantom sank to the chair and uncovered his cache, pulling up the handle. His fingers brushed the violet ribbon, and a sad, wistful smile touched his lips as he recalled the day Christine lost it. She had been playing with Meg in the auditorium. The ribbon fell from her hair, several feet from where he'd hidden in shadows. He had watched its graceful flutter to the floor as she darted away from behind a chair to run down another aisle. Then, any emotions for his young protégé had been purely innocent and intrigued, his stealth in taking the ribbon only to have something of hers to ease the heavy mantle of loneliness that was his lot. In those days, he dared to equate himself as an older brother, a friend, a confidant - nothing more than that.

Once she blossomed into a woman, his feelings abruptly shifted into an unfamiliar and disturbing cadence he'd never before known. There had been lust, as he experienced at some of the worst times in his life, but what he felt toward her had been so much more than heat and want – confusing sensations tangled within the bonds of his heart that made it bleed as much as his body grew to burn. _Bleed_ , when she turned away from the eternal promise he offered and embraced the shallow beauty of the boy. What the Phantom felt for Christine had been so unlike anything formerly experienced, terrible if not impossible to manage. Had he more panache with how to overcome his ravening sensibilities or even known the correct method to proceed to his desired goal, perhaps matters could have ended differently between them. Perhaps they would not have needed to _end_ at all. Perhaps, she might have come to care…

He snorted at the idea. Care for a monster? What treachery his mind was intent to foster! After she had ripped away his mask the first time, he pleaded with her to find the man behind the beast, but she only watched with eyes of misery before averting them to the stones. Weeks ago, when she sought him out after the Don Juan tragedy, she had been vague in her replies to his demands, as always, unable to ferret out the secrets of her heart and tell him what he longed to hear...what he would never hear...what she could not begin to feel.

Not for a monster.

In a tight fist he withdrew the ivory glove she'd worn to her first ball and absently left behind on a bench. He had followed every one of her movements on the ballroom floor, jealous that he could not be her partner, and had wished a dark and brutal end to every gallant young hopeful who touched that dainty hand and danced with her that night...

Now, he could see how what he felt for Christine had escalated into a dangerous obsession. One forbidden thought, one dark hope, and he had allowed it to spread like a weed that choked all else, destroying an opera house and all the lives within. When he overheard the boy in his wretched scheme to force her betrayal and take her from him, reason gave way to madness.

The petals of his rose she so thoughtlessly dropped on the rooftop had browned, and crumbled slightly beneath his hand, much as his association with his pupil had faded and ended in ruin.

Frowning, he set the decayed rose aside. He could not change what he razed, could not reverse the damage done. But if it was within his power to help Christine now, he would do so. That is, if he could find her.

To visit the train station to learn if anyone fitting Christine's description purchased a ticket and to what destination was dangerous; he was a wanted man, the catastrophe of the opera house disaster still fresh in the minds of the citizenry. Gendarmes were sure to still be on the lookout, eager for his capture. The white porcelain that covered his face would have to go, all of Paris on the alert about a deformed madman in a mask, and the black leather of his Don Juan had likely been burned to a crisp, though it, too, was unsuitable for his purpose…

When he thought he would be spending a life with Christine, he'd begun to fashion a full covering for his face as close to the hue of his flesh as he could craft. After a cycle of trial and error with the dyes, at last he had arrived at a nearly seamless version, almost undetectable unless one looked too close. Alterations would need to be made, another wig used, but he could manage that.

After selecting several of his best sketches of Christine, he withdrew the rolls of bank notes and pouches of gold napoleons, emptying his cache and again wishing that she'd taken more for her journey to the devil knew where. He stashed the money in a swathe of black velvet he used to cover the stage, knotting his makeshift knapsack tightly, and settled back a moment to ponder anything else needed. At rest, he noted what he'd not seen before: One of his fountain pens lay atop a sheaf of paper used for his scores, blank and not yet lined with staffs for composing his music notes. His housekeeping skills were practically nonexistent, in truth, quite slovenly, but he would never leave the writing instrument there, on the possibility that ink might leak from the nib and ruin the expensive paper.

He picked up the top sheet, his keen mind immediately noting the indentations which covered the middle of the page. His eyes narrowed in thought before he reached for his box of charcoals and withdrew a stick. Lightly shading over the marks – three names of cities emerged from the black, with only one of them circled – Marseille.

Grimly he smiled. Fate, perhaps, that her chosen destination was mere miles from what would have become their home. Coincidence, surely, but now that he discovered her route, he made quick work of exchanging masks and collecting all else wanted and left his subterranean dwelling place of over two decades. This time, forever. He did not look back to reminisce, the only memory worthwhile tainted by pain and heartache. As Christine had done, so would he do, and begin a life elsewhere.

Time was of the essence, with no idea when Christine left, be it days or hours; though her scent still perfumed the air, telling him it might have only been a matter of _minutes_. He had arrived to his lair by a route unfamiliar to her, a shorter and more perilous stretch, and could easily have missed her.

The Phantom found an agitated Cesar closed up in a dirty stall with an empty feed pail, the trough bone dry. The stable boys, no longer receiving their pay, had left the premises with the demise of the theater. But what was unforgivable was their callousness in leaving the animals behind to starve. Volubly cursing such negligence, he kept his tone low so as not to startle his horse. The living conditions of the remaining three horses were likewise deplorable, and in a state of righteous fury, he unbarred and swung open each stall, giving the poor beasts their freedom. No living being should be caged and left untended. Not a one!

Whipping out his dagger, he slashed one of the feed bags so that grain poured over the floor in a yellow flood and watched with grim satisfaction as all four horses eagerly took their fill. The heavy rain that still covered the streets would take care of their thirst. He had no time to tend to each animal individually. Leading Cesar from the dark stable, he noticed a bucket half-filled with water on the ground outside. The horse dipped his head low and drank. Erik then saddled his mount and rode out into the night.

From perusing train schedules weeks ago, he knew the train bound for Marseille would have already departed, the next not arriving until the following day. It hardly mattered. He did not dare show his face, even so disguised, within so populated an area. One of his many interests being geography led him to craft maps, crude but well charted enough for him to follow, and he soon determined what direction he must travel.

Like an avenging wraith, he rode hard across the dark countryside, until the scourge of the Phantom had been left far behind. Traveling parallel to the train tracks, he entered a town, dawn still hours away, his horse exhausted from being driven so hard.

Running a hand through Cesar's damp mane in apology, he then pounded on the door of the common stables to summon the stable master. With a disgruntled yawn the man answered, blinking sleep from his eyes and barely offering a glance toward Erik's flesh-toned mask, over which Erik had pulled the brim of his hat low. He paid the price quoted for lodging his horse, securing Cesar a clean stall and care, stating he would return in a matter of weeks and would reward the man with several gold coins if he found Cesar in good health and well-tended. He bit off an instinctive threat, if Cesar should not be found in sterling condition, having no desire to draw attention to himself. He was far enough from Paris and the gendarmes who hunted him not to arouse suspicion, but still found it prudent to exercise caution. The light in the man's eyes at mention of due compensation assured Erik his instructions would be followed implicitly.

Locating the train station wasn't difficult, the ticket master barely offering a weary glance as he stamped his ticket and handed it over. A few pointed questions assured that it wasn't too late.

Scant minutes later, the Phantom boarded the train that had stopped to take on passengers, bound for Marseille. One hawk-like glance around the interior assured him that his hard work had not been in vain. His heart gave a mad lurch, as if to tear loose from his body, though he held back and remained silent, not wishing to draw attention to himself.

Like a shadow, he slipped into a seat at the rear, his eyes never straying from the head of pinned-up mahogany curls that wearily nodded toward the slender shoulder of a woman halfway up the car from where he sat.

 _Christine_...

* * *

xXx

 **A/N: Yes, I know, a lot of exposition, and no dialogue - but it was necessary to plot, and I wanted to give Erik's eye view of all that was happening...thank you, as always, for the reviews! :)**


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: Thank you so much for the reviews! :) And now…**

* * *

 **Chapter VIII**

.

The moment Christine left the Phantom's lair and wound her way above and out one of the exit doors that had not been barred, she approached a cab that stood nearby to take her to the train station. The rain had thankfully ceased and with a destination now in mind and not knowing the time of departure, she wished to arrive there quickly.

Her conscience warred with what she had done, whether it was right, whether it was wrong – whether he would return or not, to even know she had borrowed the money. She soothed her mind that she'd left him a missive of her less than exemplary actions with the intent to return every franc note. But then, there was the book…not needed, but entirely wanted.

She frowned to see a gendarme standing across the wide boulevard with his full attention trained on her. There was little to be done now, even if she wished to retrace her steps and return what she'd absconded with. She could not go back, having been spotted leaving the condemned opera house. She would be questioned, detained. Madame Giry might be informed if there was an investigation; worse still, they might associate her with Raoul and send a message to the Vicomte, and that would be that. Before the officer could approach to ask the reason for her presence there, Christine leaned forward to the driver.

"Please go – and hurry. I have a train to catch."

"As you wish, mademoiselle."

The driver complied, and Christine focused ahead, setting her sights forward, surreptitiously glancing only once over her shoulder to see the gendarme run awkwardly with lifted hand to hail her down. His shouts faded and she looked forward.

Determined not to let her mind wander in reverse to a magical time she had taken so horribly for granted, with a genius teacher she once dubbed her glorious Angel of Music, she brushed the telltale beginning of tears from her lashes and forced her mind to still. Focusing her attention only to what could be seen as the horse-drawn carriage moved along the busy tree-lined streets, she forced away all of what was remembered.

The train depot was more populated than she expected for this hour of day, but she had little experience with such places to know its natural state. Though she feared being spotted at every turn, it was easier to get lost inside a crowd. Nervously she purchased her ticket from an apathetic teller and found a bench in a shadowed area to sit and wait the hour remaining for her train to arrive.

From the folds of the black scarf pulled low over her head, she observed other passengers, some with their friends and family move to and fro. With every minute that passed her nerves felt stretched taut to snapping, certain at any moment she would be discovered, certain that Madame or Meg or Raoul would move into her line of vision or shout her name from afar. Half hoping they would save her from this decision, all the while knowing it was best they did not.

When it seemed that time would drag for all eternity and had tangled her in a mass of nerves, at last the call was given to board. The seats and windows were covered in cinders, the train rather crowded, but she found a seat toward the middle of the third car. A matronly woman with a basket over the crook of one arm sat on the bench beside her and greeted her in a foreign language. Christine shook her head and smiled apologetically to convey that she didn't understand. When at last the train departed, she began to relax with the solemn knowledge that she had done it; she had effectively made her escape. Wouldn't the Master of Evasion be proud?

She winced as once more her thoughts turned to _him;_ would a day ever come when the reminders would not come so frequent? Would not come at all?

Feeling overly warm, Christine unknotted the scarf that clung damply to her head and brought it down to drape around her neck. With no one to talk to, she stared out the window and watched forest and sky speed past in a blur of emerald and pale turquoise. The scenic image soon lulled her into a nodding state and she slept. Now and then, as if in a fog, she heard the train screech and felt it jar to a halt to deboard present passengers and pick up new ones, always soon to pick up speed again and continue along its route.

When next she woke, the sky outside the window was dark. Gas lamps, their flames low, had been lit within, and she noticed her seat mate had been replaced with a solemn, younger woman who dabbed at her eyes now and then, seeming disinclined to talk.

As she again looked ahead, Christine had the oddest feeling of being watched. She darted anxious glances about her and over her shoulder. The train was full to capacity with men and women, some asleep as she'd been, others showing little interest in their surroundings, save for a few who glanced at her as she glanced at them.

She was letting her imagination run wild. No one followed her. She was alone, would likely always be alone...

Her gaze wandered and locked onto the window, the dark landscape barely covered with a thin coat of silver moonlight. All was in darkness… just as he had lived in darkness. At the forlorn memory of her unfaithful mind, Christine sadly closed her eyes.

xXx

From ten rows behind, the Phantom sat and watched her, never once took his eyes from her. Situated in the shadowed midst of a stretch between gas lamps, his row toward the back of the car lay mostly in darkness and unoccupied save for his presence. A carpetbag with those belongings he felt crucial sat on the bench beside him, deterring any potential passengers from taking a seat. He did not wish any of the bothersome curious to look too closely at his masked face and detect the seams there. With no time to yet improvise a disguise, he carried only a handful of necessities with him…

Whether it be the divine providence Christine was so ready to embrace or sheer dumb luck he was more inclined to believe that brought him so swiftly into her presence, he did not hazard a guess. Though his goal had been to learn her location and help her as he could from the shadows, he certainly never expected to find her so quickly; he had thought he would need to scour the streets of Marseille. Had they just missed one another in the caverns?

It hardly failed to matter.

The desire to make his presence known nearly overwhelmed him, but he would _not_ make that mistake again. Had he never come forward into her dressing room on the night of her debut, had he never made himself flesh and dispelled with the fantasy – at this hour of this night they might be sequestered in the chapel. Each of them on opposite sides of the wall but conversing and sharing in their music, as destiny always meant it to be.

He noticed Christine look nervously all about her, and he slunk deeper into the shadows, pulling his chin further into the collar of his cloak he had pulled up around his ears. With the fedora and the wig she would never know him; the white and black masks he had exchanged for a flesh-colored one that did an adequate job to both blend in and conceal.

Once the train pulled into Marseille, he waited until she deboarded and watched her progress through the series of windows before he stepped onto the platform. More than a year of working as chief assassin for the rulers of Persia followed by his hauntings as the Paris Opera Ghost gave him the edge needed to shadow her to within feet of her presence without his being noticed. He watched her speak to a porter, who nodded and pointed to his left. She smiled her thanks and continued in that direction.

Marseille, like Paris, was thriving and certainly as well populated. The white masts of ships dotted the docks of the seaport town, the ocean glimmering like a coverlet of deep cerulean jewels in the noonday sun. The sky was just as intense a blue, blinding really, to a man who'd spent years beneath the earth with only firelight as a guiding beacon. And though the daylight was foreign to him, even painful, he never once let Christine out of his sight as she made her slow, uncertain way down a crowded street. The tang of the sea mingled with the brine of fish from the many stalls of the fishmongers, and interwoven, almost undetectable, was the sweet smell of flora and the earthiness of olives from the trees that grew along the coast.

She visited a boarding house near the wharf, but was turned away. The second one approached received the same results. He watched her firm her shoulders beneath his best cloak that seemed to swallow her slight form. He winced to see the damage it took as it trailed several inches on the dusty ground behind her, now and then accidentally trodden on by those fools who walked too close. Yet her comfort was more important than a few yards of fine wool and damask satin, and he did not regret leaving her with the the striking piece of outerwear…as she had left him her diamond ring. With idle fingers he touched the cloak he wore on the side to which he had sewn an inner pocket, one of a few, where the token was kept.

Khan's words had finally slipped through the mire of his madness, and Erik reasoned that perhaps the old Persian had been accurate in his presumption – that Christine had left the ring, to give a little piece of herself by which to remember her. In his dark haze of residual bitterness and sorrow he had presumed her action to be one of denial and betrayal. Perhaps he'd been wrong…

Perhaps.

It hardly mattered. Years of rejection and isolation taught him there was no place for his kind among the people of this world. In that alone, he'd been slow to understand. The events of two weeks ago had been a cruel reminder.

She stopped, seemed to hesitate, then took yet another street, further inland, and approached the stairs of yet another building. A heavyset woman swept the walk and stopped her before Christine could reach the steps to knock. Erik slipped further back into the shadows of a recessed alcove, still within hearing distance.

"…but I need something tonight," Christine insisted softly, desperation lacing her words.

"Haven't got a thing, not 'til next week. One of my tenants is leaving then, 'less you want to take up in the attic. It leaks when it rains, but it's big. I'll let you have it for ₣50 a week, ₣200 owed at the end of the month, with two week's advance up front …"

Christine actually seemed to consider the outlandish idea. "I..I will have to let you know. Merci." She turned as if to leave, then hesitated. "Do you happen to know if there is an eatery nearby? Somewhere simple, with modest prices?"

"There's a café 'round the corner."

Christine nodded her thanks and moved on. The woman shrugged in apathy and resumed sweeping her stoop.

But the Phantom was not satisfied.

xXx

Hunger gnawed an irksome ache inside her belly, and Christine realized she'd not eaten since before leaving the Phantom's lair. She fluctuated between thinking of him as the Phantom and remembering him as her Angel, depending on her mood at the time, since he'd given her no other name to go by.

Relieved to spot a sidewalk café around the next bend, she found an empty table for two and gratefully sank to one of a pair of scrolled iron chairs. She brought her ankle to rest against her knee, rubbing it through the laced boot and feeling as if she had walked a century. She had not danced in months, not since her Maestro demanded of the managers that she be given the vocal lead in his Don Juan Triumphant, the choreographed steps for a diva simple, and she felt a bit rusted over in the joints.

A waiter came to her table. She ordered a sweet biscuit and coffee, digging through the carpet bag for the pouch of coins to pay him. Securing the two needed and slipping them on the table, she then pulled out the Phantom's soft leather book of sketches. She felt a second niggling of guilt to have absconded with not only his funds but also a token of his art. It had been foolish, perhaps, but with the belief he would never return for anything in that world he told her he no longer wanted, she didn't see any true transgression in taking it.

Or so she told herself.

Ignoring the little angel on her shoulder that whispered this was wrong, she pushed back her unease and opened the flap to study the first sketch. A view of his lair, with his pipe organ taking predominance. The year was written at the bottom – _1859_ – eleven years ago. The next sketch showed an angle of the Opera House rooftop, with the same year. A few more other locations in the opera house, with the same year, a few of Marseilles, which had led her here - and then with the next page, the style of sketches changed. She inhaled a soft breath to see a little girl kneeling beside a memorial tier of candles, face upturned in soft entreaty, and she recognized herself in the chapel. The year displayed verified that it was the same time she'd met her Angel.

She shuffled through the pages, finding her child likeness as his main interest: images of her dancing, playing, praying, and then she stopped, her eyes widening in shock of what she found next. No images were displayed here. Instead, bold handwriting filled the page with its decisive flair. Thumbing ahead, she noted that the last two-thirds of the book were also filled with nothing but text. She didn't need a little devil on her opposite shoulder to coax her to continue, much too intrigued to close the cover. She went back to the initial page and read the first lines:

 _I draw the darkness around myself like a shroud protects a corpse, to conceal the shame of my existence; a monster shunned by a sanctimonious humanity. Yet what I mock I find myself emulating in an endless circle of the absurd. I am not considered worthy to be regarded as a denizen in this world that reviles me, and yet, I live on..._

Awed, she stared at the strong, artistic script that revealed within its sardonic lines such bleak despair. Within her hands, she held reflections of the Phantom's heart…the Angel she had always wished to know and understand…he had deceived her and denied her a name, and now, within her thieving hands, she held the most intimate secrets of his existence.

As if the soft, cool leather scorched her, she swiftly closed the book and returned it to her carpetbag, inhaling a deep breath as if starved for oxygen. The waiter appeared at her elbow with her order, and thanking him she hurriedly handed over the coins.

She set her concentration on the flaky iced biscuit and coffee, forcing guilt to flee. She never intended to take something so personal to him, only his drawings that were mostly of her…but upon consideration she felt no true remorse. He would never know, never again would she see him, so what true harm could keeping his book cause? She certainly could never take it back.

The thought provoked the emptiness again, a dull ache that scraped inside her heart, and solemnly she finished her meal. With nowhere to go, but fearing dusk would soon descend and she'd have no shelter overhead, she considered sitting at this table throughout the night or at least until the café closed. But what then?

The inn near the wharf had no vacancy, and both boarding houses she tried were full. Well, there was the attic of the last one – perhaps it wouldn't be too uncomfortable, at least until the rains came. It certainly was the better alternative to finding a bench in a park, assuming Marseille contained one of those.

Her feet were sore, the day was nearly done, and she could not wander the unfamiliar streets of the city all night.

With no true need for haste now that her decision was made, she sat back and ordered another coffee. Whittling away the minutes, she watched the passersby, those on foot and the occasional horses and carriage that trundled past, all with a home, a place to go to. She was accustomed to solitude, though in a multitude of those moments she had in actuality been engaging in secret lessons with her Angel, but she dreaded true loneliness. And since leaving Paris and all those she cared about, she never felt the emotion more intensely. Surrounding herself with people, even strangers whose names and faces she didn't know failed to alleviate the hollow ache, but it offered some comfort, however slight.

As she watched, a girl of perhaps seven walked from the direction Christine had come. Her face was smudged with dirt, as was her simple brown dress, her hair long and having not met with a comb in some time, but her attention was attentive and bright. She looked over the area, seeming to search for someone. Once her eyes found Christine, she smiled and hurried over to her table.

"Mam'selle," she said, "You must come."

"What?" Christine gave her a curious smile. "Who are you?"

She put her hand over Christine's where it rested in her lap, intending to pull her along with her. "Maman says you must come, for a place to stay."

Curious but not alarmed, assuming she belonged to the woman at the last boarding house, Christine grabbed her carpetbag and followed the child back to the establishment she had just left. The woman there propped her broom against the wall and moved to meet Christine.

"I have a room for you," she said, walking up the few stairs to the stoop, "Quite a stroke of luck. A former tenant left not an hour after you came, and good riddance - loud-mouthed bastard..." When Christine remained in place, the woman looked over her shoulder. "Well? You interested or not?"

"Oh – yes, of course." Christine hurried to follow, and the woman led her up four flights of stairs.

"₣15 a week, ₣60 a month," the woman rattled off. "Coal's extra at ₣2 a pail, coal stove is in your room. Privy's at the end of the hall. If you want a washtub brought to your room, that's an extra ₣2. Meals are at 6 o'clock, spot on, and table is cleared at seven. Breakfast the same – six and seven. If you're late, find your own meal. No exceptions."

Christine drew her brows together in confusion, having thought the woman earlier said ₣200 a month, but that was when she thought she might take the attic. Perhaps each room was charged differently, though it seemed an attic would require less of a fee, not more.

They arrived at a narrow hallway, and the woman opened a door that stood by itself against one wall, across and amid two others. Inside stood a cot with a bare mattress, a small coal stove in one corner, with a table and chair next to a smaller curtained window.

"I require two weeks up front." The woman held out a plump, grubby hand. "You still want the room?" she asked a bit impatiently when Christine stared, still a bit dazed by the swiftness of the proceedings.

"Yes, of course." She fumbled with the carpetbag and the pouch inside, withdrawing from it a hundred franc note – the smallest denomination she had of what she'd taken.

The woman's brows lifted toward her hairline, but she snatched the bill from Christine's fingers. "Haven't change to give you. We'll call it a month's pay and credit the rest for next month and other things you'll be needin.' Guess you'll be wantin' some coal and water. I'll send Jess up with it, and bring you some linens so as you can make up your bed…"

Christine was given no choice as the woman bustled out, and for the first time she felt true relief that she had borrowed the Phantom's money. Without it, she never would have gotten this far. If she managed well enough, she shouldn't have to worry about acquiring work for a few months yet, though she planned to begin her hunt for a position soon.

In what skill, she was still uncertain, though she hardly had the luxury of choice and would need to take what domestic position she could find available for a young, single woman with no training or experience. At the café, she noticed only men waiting tables. She wondered if the manager might make an exception…or did women act as waiters? Come to think of it, she had never seen one...

She sank to the bare bed and looked at the cheerless room, what would be her new home for the foreseeable future.

Once the harried woman returned, huffing breaths at the exertion of climbing four stories, she handed Christine her bedding and trundled out with nary a word. Christine blinked at the realization that she didn't even know the name of her new landlady.

That made two people who had left her in the dark concerning a name. Of course, she would learn the woman's in time, but the thought led her to think of her Angel and what he was doing, where he had gone and, God forbid, if he'd been caught.

With a disgruntled sigh that her mind had again taken her on its merry-go-round into that horrible night she resolved to forget, she quickly made up her bed. There was no pillow, but if she bunched up his cloak and laid her head on the satin lining, it would make a worthy substitute.

With no timepiece to keep track of the hours, an oversight she must soon remedy, she peeked out the window. By the manner in which the deep violet shadows of dusk had begun to spread across the city, it must be nearing suppertime.

Above her head, came the sounds of footsteps walking back and forth, interspersed with the scrape of something heavy, perhaps furniture being moved. She rolled her eyes toward the ceiling in resigned impatience, hoping the tenant who lived above wasn't always so noisy.

She wandered downstairs and found the dining room, but supper proved a disappointment: a bland meat pastry pie, with doughy crust, and even blander company. Her landlady bustled in and out with a scowl and without a word. Two other tenants were seated at the table – a meek, plain young woman and her stern aunt who, after Christine's tentative introduction, ignored her. The girl, Mademoiselle Ledoux, kept her timid gaze fastened to her plate, while her aunt, Madame Gagnon, gave silent stares of disapproval to Christine, whose unkempt ringlets were not molded into a proper bun and pinned neatly and whose neckline wasn't as modest as the women's who wore them to their throat, though by no means was hers risqué either.

After a few forkfuls, and a few sips of common wine to dispel the lump of pastry that lodged in her throat, Christine excused herself from the tense absence of dinner conversation and returned to her room.

The day's laborious details left her exhausted, and she dressed for bed. In her absence, a pail of coal had appeared near the small stove, and a pitcher of water sat atop the table. She ignored both and huddled beneath the blanket, nuzzling her cheek into the satin of his cloak. Her heart skipped a beat at his scent that lingered, and a silent tear found its way into the soft folds.

The sweet aromas of ink and candle smoke coupled with an exotic fragrance took her into dreams of being back at the opera, back under her teacher's guidance. In the next instant, they stood on a high bridge, Christine held in the arms of her Angel of Music, when suddenly he let go, and she turned to question. Wings suddenly appeared at the back of his cloaked form, and with confusion she stared into the masked face of the Phantom of the Opera, the ivory half-mask changing to full black, and the feathery white wings going slate-dark…

She woke with a start, breathing fast, shock making her heart flutter wildly within her breast.

Darkness lay heavy all around, and in the stillness of the night, she heard music…

xXx

* * *

 **A/N: And so, the fun begins… ;-)**


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: Thank you so much for the feedback - I LOVE reading where you guys are with this...(as I secretly smile and chuckle)...and now...**

* * *

 **Chapter IX**

Christine lay motionless, barely breathing, as she strained to hear the poignant chords through thick wood and plaster. A violin. Someone in the building was playing a violin. Or, perhaps the stirring music came from outdoors. Faint, mournful notes plucked the strings to her soul, the musician quite masterful, and as she lay there, soaking in the distant melody, she couldn't help but be reminded of her nights at the opera….and of her Angel.

Unwanted, the last time she heard him play came to mind – at the cemetery, when he again deceived and coaxed her mind into a web of confusion. Father, Phantom, _Angel…friend._ Yes, he had been to her a friend, their association bizarre, distant, at times uncertain. Yet he never had shown apathy with what she said, and always he had seemed to care, to listen.

He rarely played the violin in her time of knowing him; even during their lessons she usually sang without accompaniment, his excuse being to better hear her every pitch and scale, and that made sense through dense walls of stone she now knew he had hidden behind. (His hearing must be exceptional to have mastered the effort!) When he'd taken her to his lair, he'd proven his skill on the pipe organ, but on those infrequent occasions when he did play the violin, she recalled his mood always seemed troubled, and that day at the cemetery he had only wished to deceive.

Wide awake now, Christine slipped out of bed and hurried to the window. A couple of hits with the heel of her palm to the stubborn latch forced the pane to swing open. The strains of music came stronger, the series of notes more recognizable even if its composer was not. She scanned the empty area lit with intermittent lamps, but no lone street musician stood within view, haunting the night with his evocative notes. Soft, so soft, as if he feared to wake a sleeping city, or perhaps his was the musical lullaby to ease it into restful slumber.

The night breeze smelled of brine and was chill; she had laid no fire in the small stove. Yet Christine lingered a while longer at the window, the cold racing gooseflesh along her skin beneath the loose nightdress, the music stirring rhapsodic inside her soul...

x

With the advent of a new day, Christine donned a skirt of dark green wool over her chemise, the skirt her one additional change she'd brought with her. The stiff corset and button-down blouse followed, with a black silk ribbon for a choker and a matching one to tie back two portions of her hair the flourish to the image of confident young woman she wished to project.

If only confidence _could_ be attained through the donning of apparel!

Mustering resolve, she took breakfast at the boarding house, finding the barley porridge bland, even with the cream stirred in, and the toasted rye burnt along the top, both as inedible as last night's supper. A pity she couldn't cook; she would jump to offer her services for hire.

"It really is quite awful, isn't it, but stirring in jam does help," the timid Mademoiselle Ledoux quietly offered, and Christine looked across the table in surprise that she'd spoken. The chair next to the young woman was empty, Madame Gagnon absent.

"My aunt isn't feeling well this morning," the girl explained, following Christine's stare. "We've been in Marseille a week, but she still hasn't quite recovered after leaving Paris."

"Paris?" Christine asked, suddenly alert. "You came from Paris?"

The woman's brows lifted, her shock apparent but milder. "You are from Paris also?"

Christine nervously twisted the napkin in her lap. "You mentioned that your aunt isn't yet fully recovered. I hope it wasn't due to the opera house disaster?" She recalled with horror the many that lay wounded that night.

"I've never been to an opera, but no, I was with her that evening. We were visiting a sick relation at the time. However, I actually did hear two gentlemen who stayed here, at Madame Crispin's boarding house, discuss the incident in the parlor days ago. I think they were in Paris when it happened, but not at the opera, due to words they exchanged. From what I gathered, they came from London and had been visiting Paris. Were you part of the audience that night?"

"No, I wasn't," Christine said in all honesty and gave nothing more. She certainly had no wish for anyone in Marseilles to tie her to the disaster of the Don Juan and all else she was currently running from, but she had to know more.

"Do you recall if either of the two gentlemen said if arrests were made?" At Mademoiselle Ledoux's inquisitive look, Christine added, "I have friends who were at the opera that night."

The woman shook her head in regret. "I'm sorry, I don't recall either of them speaking of arrests made. But if you wish for information, you might find an article in one of the national newspapers that circulate throughout the city."

Christine sincerely thanked her. Yet later on the crowded street, upon finding a newsboy and procuring a paper to riffle through its several pages, Christine found nothing. No news of Paris. No news of the Phantom's capture or of his evasion. Nothing.

Her venture to the sidewalk café ended in disappointment. The manager, when she finally did speak to him after asking a waiter for aid and being forced to wait long minutes, told her in no uncertain terms that he did not hire women. He was kind in his refusal, but adamant in his opinion that women workers brought nothing but trouble. She was disappointed with his decision, but resolved not to fully surrender despite that, if he knew her past, he would consider her one of those troublesome women. The tragedy of the Don Juan could not be laid entirely at the feet of the Phantom; Christine bore her share of blame and was determined not to let anything of that nature occur in this new life she struggled to create. But why should it? As long as she kept her voice silent, none would recognize her or manipulate her days into a tragic end. She suggested that should the manager change his mind, she lived around the corner, at the boarding house of Madame Crispin, whose title she came to discover through her discussion with Mademoiselle Ledoux.

Only one name yet remained a mystery, and she wondered if the seized book would provide the coveted answer…

Her dip into the murky side of bad luck continued with her visit to the laundress, the asking price of ₣10 to clean her dress seeming ridiculously high. Christine had no way of knowing, of course, never having needed to tend to her clothing, the laundresses at the opera house having taken care of those needs for the chorus and any payment taken out of her wages before she received them. She supposed she could take the cake of fragrant soap that she'd earlier bought for bathing and use it on the garment, but she had no idea how to proceed afterward. To wring soapy water out of her dress and hang it from the window didn't seem wise, so she submitted to the asking price, swallowing her pride and inquiring about a position there. The sturdy set woman, whose ruddy, perspiring face and chapped, red hands were likely a product of her daily task, took one look at Christine's slight form bordering on petite then dropped her focus to her delicate, lily-white hands and told Christine she had all the hired help she needed.

Christine did not pursue the issue, feeling almost relieved by her rejection as she dabbed the humid moisture from her face and neck with a lace-edged handkerchief and left the steamy area.

After a less than prosperous afternoon, she returned to her room in discouragement to sequester herself within. She eyed with guilt the book that lay on the small table, her awkward evasions to avoid it dwindling as the minutes themselves dwindled, until suddenly she found the leather volume once again in her hands.

"Forgive me, my Angel," she whispered, "but I must know…" Inhaling a steady breath of resolve, she opened to the page where she left off:

 _That which I fear shall not best me! Once, a skeletal boy kept in a cage, I tore through shackles of blind terror with the brutal pull of a rope, at last putting torment to death by becoming its executioner. Still, in the heavy black veils of darkness, figments of the nightmare linger. The face of my oppressor changes over time, with each new anguish faced, but always with the same haunting refrain – to hunt and to capture. To kill the beast._

 _It is of no matter. Whatever attempts to oppress me, to chain me, to belittle me, to torture, entrap or hinder me – even entrance me, if that were possible - I shall prevail._

Christine sat back against the chair, pensive with his first entry. She brought her troubled gaze to the window, where the early evening sun beamed a wash of light onto the floorboards between the gap in chintz curtains.

Always, she had been cautioned to fear the Opera Ghost, told that he was a danger, especially to those who dared cross him. Never, _never_ had she imagined that _he_ once had been victim and that such a horrific past stretched far back into the vulnerable years of his youth - not until her enlightening conversation with Madame Giry. And now this, in her Angel's own words.

Her childhood had been intricately sewn with love and music, the glorious pattern of her days knit with weaving flower chains, catching butterflies, and delighting in stories of pretend. Her mother died when she was quite young, but Christine recalled how she had smelled of roses and the coziness of her embracing arms as her mother sang and rocked her to sleep. A malady stole her away, leaving her gentle musician father alone to raise her. He had played for her to dance and encouraged her to play, becoming everything good and safe and wonderful to her girlhood heart.

When he died, a part of her died with him, until she met the Angel, who had breathed the music back into her emptiness…into her soul.

To learn how cruelly he suffered – trapped in a cage – _tortured_? And to know that such despairs followed him through each stage of his life was overwhelming to consider and absorb…He had been brief and concise with his words, but in that brevity she felt such depths of his pain.

That night, Christine forced herself to stay awake. She had poured herself a cup of coffee after dinner to remain alert, and anytime her lids began to droop as the minutes trudged past, she paced on bare feet over the cold planks of her floor. A glance at the small silver pocket watch she had obtained at a watchmaker's showed it had gone past the midnight hour. The window stood wide, the chill wind causing the curtains to flutter inward then blow out again. She pulled her wrapper tight over her chemise, and continued her vigil, but after a few more minutes of this, began to think it a waste of time. Simply because the musician had chosen the nocturnal hours to play did not mean he would repeat his solo performance. He likely was no longer in the area.

With a sigh, Christine closed the window and pulled back the bedcovers, hopeful to get at least a few hours of sleep before dawn. As she reclined on the mattress, the melancholy hum of a violin sweetly vibrated into the night.

Throwing aside the blanket, Christine dashed to the window and pushed it open, clutching her hands around the ledge while popping her head outside and straining to hear. No longer distant, the music sounded as if it came…

She craned her head to peer upward, noting the curtains blowing in the shadows of the window above. She looked a moment longer before pulling her head inside.

With nary a sane thought to propel her, she hurried to the door and slipped out of her room. This late in the night the other residents would be sleeping, with perhaps the exception of one guest.

It was irrational, yes; she did not understand why it was so important to discover from where the music came, but she moved to the foot of the stairwell and looked up the narrow passage to the single door above. Slowly, she took each stair upward, placing her palm to the wall as a guide. The other hand clutched her gown, pulling up the hem, so as not to trip in the darkness, the only light coming from the gas lamp in the corridor below. As she ascended, the music grew in strength.

There was no longer a doubt in her mind; the nighttime violinist occupied the attic room above her bedchamber.

Giving no true coherent thought to her actions, she arrived at the topmost stair and the short landing to stand before the door. The music played on for a few melancholy notes before it stopped mid-adagio, and Christine saw with a shocked start that her fist had lifted to knock.

She blinked, coming to awareness, and took a small step back, snatching her hand away.

 _What_ in heaven's name was she _doing?!_

Realizing with sudden embarrassment that she stood in her nightdress in the dead of night about to knock on a stranger's door, she whirled away and sped down the stairs and to her bedchamber. Once she closed herself inside, she sat on her bed long minutes to find a measure of peace before slipping beneath the blanket and laying her head on the folded cloak of a pillow.

The moonlight cast a dim glow in the room as she stared up at the ceiling.

The violin did not play again.

xXx

Another day passed absent of opportunities to gain a livelihood. Another night passed sweetly saturated in the haunting music. This time, Christine did not linger at the open window but lay within her bed and allowed the nostalgic notes to cover her in the raiment of dreams….

Whereupon she dreamed of her Angel, before she had known he was but a man.

At breakfast, she questioned Mademoiselle Ledoux if she, too, had heard the music. The docile young woman softly shook her head and explained that their rooms were located on the second floor and her aunt kept the window closed. "Besides," she said, darting a nervous glance to the gentleman who occupied a chair at the far end of the table. "I sleep quite soundly," she half whispered to Christine.

Christine understood the woman's regress into shyness. The other guest, who earlier introduced himself as Monsieur Roquefert had not ceased in covertly staring between Christine and Mademoiselle Ledoux, as if sizing up which unescorted conquest he wished to undertake first. Christine gave him no opportunity as she bid adieu to the mademoiselle and left the table and the dining room, feeling a twinge of conscious to leave the timid girl alone, but then she had been alone with the man before Christine entered to dine.

Almost to her room, she heard the rapid tread of light steps coming up from behind and turned in mild alarm. A young towheaded lad with a folded newspaper tucked under his arm scampered up the stairs. She recognized him from the day before, having seen him run down the first floor staircase at the same rapid pace and leave the boarding house.

"Beggin' your pardon, ma'amselle," he huffed, clearly winded, and she felt he might try to push her aside and against the wall in his hurry to reach his destination. Before he could brush past, she turned fully on the steps blocking him.

"Is that for the tenant in the attic room?"

The boy stopped his swift tread and squinted up at her in frank curiosity. "Oui – he calls out for the paper two days now. Doesn't like it when I'm late to deliver."

"I'll take it to him." She held out her hand for the newspaper he held. "I have money in my room, just there –" she motioned to the corridor two steps above where she blocked his path.

The boy hesitated with handing it over, clearly uncertain.

"It's all right, really. I plan to go up there and speak with him." The words spoken gave way to the desire to do just that, uneasy though it made her.

"Well…I suppose…" The lad handed over the paper. "No need to pay, miss. He tosses a coin from his window to me each morning."

An odd way to secure a newspaper, but then she was hardly blameless of the peculiar, this spontaneous plan of hers odder still.

The boy ambled his merry way back downstairs, and Christine took the few steps to the short landing. Eager to find out what she needed, she quickly riffled through the pages of _La Presse_ , scanning the articles for any news of Paris. There was nothing in this circulation of newsprint either, and she refolded the pages.

Surely, with his tenacity for brilliance, _he_ would not allow himself to get caught. Surely, after such a lengthy experience with hiding, he would not put himself in that vulnerable position. She thought of the cage into which he had been forced – but he'd been only a child then. His maturity and genius would devise a way to keep him safe. It must!

With an anxious glance, she looked up the narrow stairwell leading to the attic. Two nights ago she had gone up those stairs without qualm, the music the lure that drew her there, and had stopped herself from absolute mortification at the last second. Now, her nerves were jangled and on edge to confront the mysterious resident who never once came down for a meal, never once had been seen... at least, not by her.

It was a troubling familiarity Christine could not ignore, and with this latest knowledge of his bizarre procurement of the paper, fanciful improbabilities pricked at her mind, as they had done all throughout a mostly sleepless night.

Half in dread, half in hope, her heart beat a heavy cadence, each step upward forced and slow. She pressed her hand lightly to the papered wall as a guide and support as she drew near the attic door. Closing her eyes briefly to achieve calm, she lifted her hand and rapped on the peeling wood.

"Leave it at the door!" the sharp order came from within, and Christine felt as if she had forcefully been slammed against that door...

That _voice!_ It came from beyond wood, distant and disturbing, as once it had come faraway, from beyond stone walls.

She stared with wide eyes at the dark wood and again knocked – more insistently this time.

"Monsieur! Please, open the door!"

Silence answered, thick and intolerable, and she called again, "I have your newspaper." When no response came, she quieted her tone to one almost pleading, "Please, monsieur, I must speak with you…I…I promise not to take up much of your time. I only need a moment…. _please_ …"

A moment grew into an eternity. In defeat Christine half turned to go, to do as commanded and leave the paper on the short landing.

"One moment." The voice within came deeper, closer. Christine tightened her free hand into a nervous fist by her skirts and waited, motionless. The blood coursed through her veins so swift and furious, she shook inside. Another infinity, and she heard the latch give, saw the knob turn and the door swing a fraction inward…

"Oh," she breathed in surprised disappointment, slightly rattled by her mistake, having actually thought… but no. Such a likelihood was impossible. _He_ felt nothing but hatred toward her now; he'd made that blatantly clear. He would never follow her to this place.

The mystery resident of the attic chamber had partially opened the door and stood tall within a shadowed room, only three-fourths of his face visible to her. Dark reddish-brown curls, much like her darker ringlets only looser, brushed a few inches past the shoulder of his plum-colored frock coat. Over his eyes, propped high upon the bridge of his quite ordinary nose, he wore a pair of pince-nez with dark blue lenses. A short stripe of dark facial hair ran down the middle of his chin and a mustache outlined his upper lip.

"F-forgive me for staring," she near whispered. "I thought –" She barely shook her head. "Never mind what I thought."

"I will take what is mine." Through the gap, he held out his hand for the paper. A hand _not_ encased in black leather… though on the one night _he_ had been without gloves, she'd been at first too awed and later upset to give much notice to the construction of his hands.

This man's hand was large, pale, with long, slender fingers curled slightly upward in demand for his purchase. She looked down to what she held, reminded of what was his, and handed him the paper. To her frustration, the door began to close.

"Wait!" She pressed her palm to the wood to stop it and felt an immediate rush of embarrassment to be so brash, but she stood her ground. "I- I should like to speak with you."

He did not force the door shut but stared out at her through the one oval, blue lens she could still see. "What do you want?"

His voice was deeper than she first thought, with the cultured hint of an accent she couldn't define, and she shook away the hopeful, fearful wish that had been birthed with the poignant memory of a time forever lost to her.

"Was it you on the violin these past three nights? Are you the musician?"

He inclined his head in response.

"You play beautifully."

"I trust I did not disturb your slumber." His words came stilted, almost forced, as if he had no wish to say them but felt he must.

"No, indeed, monsieur. I enjoyed it immensely. My Papa once played, and your music brought back fond memories of that time in my life. His violin is all I have left of him."

He did not move, did not respond, and she hastened forward with her chief reason for remaining at his doorstep. "I was hoping you might know where I might take my violin to get it restrung. It hasn't been touched for over a decade."

"You wish to have your instrument restrung?" His voice came curious.

Was the request so unusual?

"Yes, I intend to take it up again. Papa taught me when I was small, what little a child of six can understand. I know the basics, but need the practice. I thought eventually to make a livelihood of it, in time perhaps, to teach children to play…" Why was she telling him this, when he was nothing but a stranger and surely had no interest to hear her amateurish plans, which sounded quite foolish when aired. "Can you give me the name of a music shoppe that deals with such matters? I am new to Marseille."

"You wish to teach _the_ _violin_?" He parted his lips as if to say more, but refrained.

Why should he seem so puzzled, even incredulous? Because she was a woman? Was a musical instructor also not deemed a suitable job for a female to master? Or perhaps he did not think she had it in her to teach or to play...

"Is that so unbelievable?" she asked, trying not to feel offended. "My papa was a famous violinist. He once played in the orchestra at an opera house. It is my hope that perhaps some small part of his talent has been passed along to me."

He studied her a long moment. "Bring your instrument here," he said at last in somber tones. "I will see to its renovation."

Stunned by his offer, it took her a moment to form a reply.

"I don't wish to intrude. It's only a few strings…"

Too late, the door closed softly in her face, putting an abrupt end to their conversation.

Christine blinked, tempted again to knock and decline his reluctant offer. If he had no true wish to give her aid, why did he bother?

She retraced her steps down the steep stairs, deep in thought.

More to the point, what guarantee did she have that she could take this man at his word? She had no clue of the monetary value of Papa's violin, only the sentimental price it held in her heart. He could be a thief; he might take and never give back, with only her word against his that he'd done so.

Regardless, she returned to her room and found herself collecting the treasured instrument to take to him, with no clear understanding of why she did.

 **xXx**

* * *

 **A/N: And so, Christine is drawn to and has met the stranger in the attic… muahaha! ;-) I based his appearance on Dracula from Bram Stoker's Dracula - I just adored his stylish, Bohemian look when he met Mina - should I give him a tophat too? ;-) (Here is a short vid of their meeting for those who aren't familiar with the movie: (the usual https, colon and dashes, and DOT = .) youtube DOT com/watch?v=WOhogqO0tsY - or do a search on youtube for: DRACULA meets MINA (name of clip). Other publicity pics of him in that attire show that he sometimes wore the pince-nez higher to completely cover his eyes, as I showed for my attic guest in this chapter... Would love to know what you think of story thus far! :)**


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: Thank you so much for the reviews! :) All of them are much appreciated. And now...**

* * *

 **Chapter X**

Christine twined a long piece of string around the brown paper parcel, tying it in a secure knot and adding a bow to make it pretty. She handed the customer her package of fragrant soaps, adding her thanks for her patronage.

"And what of my change?" the haughty woman demanded.

"You gave me a five franc note. There is no change."

"I gave you a bank note of twenty francs."

"No, Madame, you are mistaken." Christine worked to keep a civil smile adhered to her face.

"You _dare_ call me a liar, mademoiselle?"

"Is there a problem?" Christine's new employer of three days hurried over to the counter.

"This impertinent miss has insulted me," the woman declared, her eyes full of contempt.

Madame Aidler quickly assessed the situation: the customer spewing deceit; Christine again, as politely as she could, correcting her misconception - though her hackles had begun to rise at being called impertinent when she'd been nothing but courteous.

Madame Aidler ignored Christine and apologized effusively to the woman, withdrawing fifteen francs from the money box and placing it in her outstretched hand. The elderly woman flung one end of the fox stole over her shoulder in disdain and disgust, muttering about never having been so offended and swearing never again to step foot inside the establishment.

Before the woman was even out the door, Madame Aidler harshly grabbed Christine's arm, hauling her around and wagging a finger beneath her nose. "You cause more trouble than you're worth – knocking things over, breaking the soaps, and now – you insult a respected customer. I have no more use for you, Christine Daaé – _go_ , and never step foot inside my shoppe again!"

Christine winced to be so unjustly scolded but held her head high, refusing to be brow-beaten. She had withstood La Carlotta; she could withstand this.

"What of my day's wages?"

The woman harrumphed. "Consider it taken from the fifteen francs I just lost."

Christine regarded her with disbelieving shock. " _Lost_ … then you _knew_ the woman was lying? And you're discharging me, regardless?"

"She was one of my most distinguished customers. Her son owns ships that bring goods to Marseille - people listen when she speaks, and she has referred many a new customer to my shoppe."

"But she spoke in deceit –"

"The Baroness Lamont does not lie; she is senile and does not always remember things well – but you should not have insulted her. I figure any discrepancy that is owed in with her next purchase, or I contact her son with the bill at month's end."

"I had no idea," Christine feebly defended. "How could I have known? You never told me."

"So now it is _my_ fault?" Madame Aidler said with a sneer that made Christine wince. "I should not need to instruct my helpers in such things - the customer's word stands. Without customers, there would be no shoppe."

"I understand. Please, won't you give me another chance?" Christine softly implored. "I won't make the same mistake again."

"Non," the woman briskly shook her head of loosely pinned, upswept curls, and Christine watched as one black coil dislodged and bounced in her eye. The woman raised a plump hand to impatiently dislodge it. "I _have_ given you chance after chance. I cannot afford you; you are too clumsy and do not fit well here. You do not do well with customers…"

Christine dryly laughed as she recalled her sacking while she walked back to the boarding house. Clumsy? She had been a _dancer_ , for pity's sake, taught to move with grace. But unfortunately she still jumped at any sudden sound, nervous at being caught – (foolish perhaps, when she dwelled hours from Paris) – thus the broken soaps, which Madame Aidler had also taken out of her wages.

An audience of strangers she knew how to cater to and handle, to satisfy their purchase for song and dance. Theatre-goers were a collective group with one goal – to be entertained - and that was what she'd given them – from a distance. She had never needed to initiate face-to-face contact with crabby individuals, and clearly did not have the skill to mediate such encounters. At the theatre, if asked her opinion she had not withheld and preferred not to deceive. With the devious Opera Ghost as her teacher, a bitter man given to speak his mind and spew insults as easy as breath, the art of refraining had never been part of her education…

Except when it came to speaking to _him._

She frowned at the thought. She had not truly feared that he would do her personal harm, not after their years-long association, mostly through walls, yes, but he _could_ have and _never did_ physically hurt her. Even so, often she had floundered in the wake of his demanding questions, those that involved the private matters of her confused heart, especially that last night in his lair. Why had it been so difficult to express her feelings or even understand them when so often they threatened to drown her soul and seep out uninvited?

That she missed his presence came as no surprise; she had expected the loss. He'd been an integral part of her life for so long…

And while she may never understand the paths of her heart, at least she now held the key to understanding his. Not that it truly mattered, since he was gone - since _she_ was gone. But at least, in reading his words, she hoped to learn from them.

Christine made a stopover at the café for her usual iced pastry, once more without work and thankful that the Phantom's stash would provide for her needs for a decent stretch of time. Taking her wrapped treat back with her to the boarding house, she decided it would be supper. After her less than accomplished day, she had no wish to visit the parlor or dining room and mingle, though the young Mademoiselle Ledoux was pleasant to talk with, unlike the other guests...

Her musings took her to the man holed up in the attic.

Upon delivering Papa's violin to the mysterious boarder that same morning they'd met, the man had opened the door to receive it, barely giving her a glance while assuring he would take care of everything and return it to her soon. Wood again met jamb swiftly, as once more he had shut the door in her face, and she had shaken her head a little in miffed frustration.

He was doing her a favor, a _kindness…_ he never needed to offer his help, she never expected it, and she resolved not to let her feelings be injured by his anti-social behavior. Heavens! He was no more than a _stranger,_ despite their shared love of the violin – no doubt, the memory of the Phantom and his music tricking her into sensing a familiarity that just wasn't there. She had never learned the attic dweller's name either - a horrid pattern she was determined to abolish - but handed over her most cherished possession into his hands! Certainly she'd not been thinking clearly, after having thought she'd known him before he opened his door… after the fleeting belief that he might _actually be_ the one who perpetually owned her thoughts.

 _He_ once told her she was his, that he _possessed_ her, and surely he seemed to have seized her mind...

Coming to her door, she opened it, the troubling thoughts that rippled through her head going frozen at the sight of the violin case sitting on her made-up bed. With an excited rush forward and a gasp of stunned delight that ended in a little squeal, she flicked both latches open and flipped up the lid.

The evening sun streamed through the curtains she had left cracked, and as she lifted the violin from its velvet interior, the white ray of light glistened against the reddish-brown varnished wood, giving it a bright gloss, the instrument more lovely in appearance than she remembered. He had not only arranged for the strings to be replaced, but the instrument itself, even the bow, looked brand new! The unique mark to confirm it was indeed the same violin could still be found at the bottom - a small, barely visible nick received to the wood when her Papa still played.

She stared a moment in disbelief and wonder, then grabbed her reticule back up and hurried out the door. The ascent along the top staircase was swift, her thoughts clear, her goal concise. At the door she knocked; this time, her wait was not prolonged.

"Yes?" his deep voice came through the thick wood.

"It's Christine Daaé," she explained, "the tenant on the floor below. I gave you my violin for repairs."

"Is there a problem?" he asked after a moment.

"No - not at all. I'm not sure what you had them do, but the violin looks better than it ever has since it came into my possession. I'm grateful."

"I am pleased that you are satisfied with my endeavors."

" _Your_ endeavors…?" The fullness of his response stunned Christine. " _You_ fixed it?" Surely she misunderstood.

"I did what I was able. If there is nothing else -"

"No - wait!" In frustration Christine looked up at the inches-thick barrier between them. "It is quite difficult to shout through the door. Would you please open it so that we might speak face to face?" Hardly shouting, but she had to raise her voice to be heard and didn't wish any guest who might be passing by to witness the strange exchange taking place at the top of the staircase.

"This is not a good time," he said after a short span elapsed.

"I wish to reimburse you."

"It is not necessary."

 _Not necessary?_ She had no idea what it cost him to refurbish Papa's violin so beautifully, but even if it was no more than a few francs, which she highly doubted, Christine had no wish to accept charity or owe another outstanding debt. Her due to the Phantom was enough of a burden and would take months, likely years to settle.

"I can pay," she insisted.

"Keep your money, mademoiselle. I have no need of it. The price for repairs is hardly worth the mention."

She shook her head in incredulous puzzlement. From the other side of the door, she heard his footsteps walk away.

She could hardly force payment on him, especially since he chose not to open his door. She supposed she could slip a few bills underneath, and seriously considered it, but only shook her head and took the stairs back down to her room. Replaying the conversation in her mind, she halted in the doorway before stepping inside, her eyes lighting on the small white paper sack from the café. A sudden bit of inspiration sparked, and she grinned.

Tossing her reticule on the bed and snatching up the chocolate éclair, she hurried back to the attic room and knocked once more. This time, there was no response, as if he had chosen to completely ignore her. She pressed her lips together in maddened exasperation.

"Monsieur? I have left something for you outside your door, a small token of my gratitude… Again, thank you for your help."

Setting the sack down next to the wall in clear view once his door opened, she giggled softly at her presentation and took the stairs back down to her room. A gift for a gift, though hers was much more modest in comparison. She only hoped this man, this Phantom of the Boarding House as she had begun to think of him, would accept her meager offering. To think that he might reject it, that she might look tomorrow to see the sack still there - ignored as she had been ignored - created a twinge of hurt, unexpected.

She had opened the door to her room when she heard the door above creak slowly open. Startled, she quickly ducked inside then peered in curiosity around the jamb, to see his tall, shadowed form stoop down, retrieve the sack, then slip back inside his attic room.

Christine's delighted smile remained long after she closed herself into her own bedchamber.

xXx

The caller waited and waited, narrowing his eyes at how absurdly long it took the housekeeper to arrive to answer his summons. Once she opened one of twin, carved doors, she studied him with thick, raised brows.

"May I help you, monsieur?"

"I wish to see the master of the house," he demanded, disguising his voice.

"The master isn't here."

"I see. When do you expect him to return?"

She shrugged. "With him, he comes and goes like a shadow chasing the sun. I'm never certain when he'll arrive. He does not always think to inform the staff. Bon Jour."

Before she could close the door in his face, he put a gloved hand to the door. "Madame Delancy," he said in his normal deep tenor, minus the accent, "the shadow has returned. Step aside, if you please."

The woman's mouth formed an O, her green eyes just as round. "Monsieur de Ranier! I-I didn't know it was you."

"Clearly."

The Phantom removed his silk tophat, handing it over, and strode past the woman into the foyer. He could not fault her inability to recognize him – that was the sole purpose of this plan, to test her discernment and see if his disguise was as foolproof as he hoped. But her reception of potential guests could stand correction, especially with regard to her sharing personal facets of his personality.

"We will speak later of your behavior and what I expect if you are to remain in my employ. Perhaps my _sainted mother_ allowed such insolence," he said dryly, watching as she hurried to set his hat on the entrance table while he removed his gloves, "but you will find I do not condone servants sharing traits about me behind my back, whether they be lies or the truth - and most especially sharing with _strangers_ that happen upon my doorstep." He threw his gloves into the tophat with angry emphasis.

"Oui, monsieur," she all but whispered, wringing her hands in her uniformed skirts. "My most sincere apologies; I did not think…A- A letter came for you two days ago. I left it on your desk. I-Is there anything you require before I return to my duties?"

A letter? No doubt from the wretched bit of Persian conscience that dogged his every move. The Daroga alone knew this place of residence when in a moment of foolish vulnerability, Erik had told him.

Feeling that he had rattled the housekeeper's sensibilities enough for one afternoon he nodded for her to go. "Leave me."

She inclined her grizzled head nervously and hurried away.

Erik released a heavy sigh. Christine's laudable but deplorable efforts at her new goal he could take no more, every misplaced dyad and wrongful screech of the bow to strings jarring to his nerves, and to visit the chateau for respite had been essential to waylay certain madness - as well as to acquire any additional items needed. With his manor such a short distance, he'd made the journey three times since securing the substandard attic room. Initially he had returned to the common stable where Cesar was kept and finding his stallion in acceptable condition paid the promised amount, riding him back to Marseille and acquiring lodging for his horse near the boarding house for ease of travel.

It was never Erik's intent that Christine should encounter him; he had never presumed her to be so bold as to approach a stranger's door, not the timid girl she'd been when in the presence of the Opera Ghost. But she saw him only as a monster, not as a man. To his misfortune, Destiny had a way of masquerading as Hope and urging him onward through corridors of promise then turning about and slapping him hard in the face while laughing at her duplicitous victory. He could be just as misleading, and in this matter, had no choice. A disguise he deemed imperative, he who had become a master of disguises…

Madame Delancy had been fooled, never having had a clue as to his identity in broad daylight, Erik having stood close … should Christine again encounter him, he would ensure candlelight and shadows would be the sole backdrop, making his disguise even more pronounced.

He felt reasonably satisfied with the housekeeper's lack of reaction and with the evidence found in his hand mirror he used as he must. Still, he found himself walking to one of three rooms he'd had renovated before the disaster, in the days when he planned to take Christine as his bride.

Opening the door, he stood on the threshold and somberly stared...

The room was a reminder of a garden after a light shower, hazy and mystical, the sun having barely peeked through. Colors of rose, mint, gold, lilac, and blue created a spectrum of a pale rainbow along the walls, in the gauzy curtains, and along the floor, aided by light fixtures of crystal, refreshing to perceive. One full wall had become his canvas which he had painted with a misty morning forest motif, created in such a way it gave the illusion that one could walk into it and find themselves there. Roses of red, white and pink lined the paper that patterned the walls and were festooned in silk above the doors and along the top of a four-poster wreathed in filmy white veils. In the corner near a wardrobe, stood a tall, gilt mirror, identical to the carved one in the opera house dressing room that revealed one's reflection head to toe.

It was a room designed for a princess, an _angel,_ and often he'd stood on its threshold imagining Christine's delight to inhabit these bright walls. His fingertips ghosted against the delicate framework of one of the bedposts, where at the top of each rested a carved angel. Dual angels, cherubic in form, faced one another in the carving of the dressing table, along the top of the hearth, even crafted as golden handles for the wardrobe and along the golden frame of the looking glass.

The recessed window contained a thick, padded seat designed for ultimate comfort upon which embroidered pillows lay, and he imagined her there now, her shapely legs pulled up beneath her, a book in her hand as she leaned back, nestled among all the deserved little luxuries he had happily provided, and soaked up the sunshine.

She, the sole woman he had ever wanted for his bride, living with him…near him…beside him…

A memory floated to him of three years past, when as the Ghost, he overheard Christine's exasperated conversation with her friend, Meg, after another harried day of sharing a dormitory room with five girls:

"One day, Meg, I shall have a room all to myself – where I can dress with all the space I need, bathe whenever I like, and _never_ have to worry about any greedy ballet rat getting into my things and taking what's mine. It shall be a lovely room, Meg…" Her voice had gone dreamy. "Colorful and bright, like a pale rainbow inside a misty, fairyland forest, with carved angels all around and a bed so big I can roll over without the fear of falling off…"

"You sound as if you've planned this all out for some time."

"Oh, I have Meg. I have…"

Her spoken dreams of her fantasy room calmed her anger with the little perpetrator who had snatched Christine's pretty ribbons, though she'd been unable to prove them hers when she took the matter to Giry.

But the Ghost had seen; the Ghost knew…

The little miscreant, a new member to the ballet, awakened the next morning with a scream of horror, her fair locks cut short enough that the filched ribbons would never hold them. Her shorn braid tied with Christine's blue satin ribbon lay on the floor near her cot, as did a pair of open scissors. To divert blame from Christine, where it was sure to land, he had left a note:

 _Dear Mademoiselle,_

 _Light fingers shear so many possibilities –it would be wise to concentrate on your dancing, not on your regrettable sleight of hand._

 _~ O.G_.

The punishment had been a bit extreme, perhaps, as Giry later scolded him - but hair would again grow - and _no one_ raised a hand against his Christine without the receipt of due reprisal. All in the theatre soon learned that truth. Nor had the young villain ever stolen again.

 _His_ Christine… if only...

The ghostly image of her faded until it was again only a lonely window alcove, forever to be absent of its intended owner. Twice in past visits he lifted a furious hand, intending to raze the absurdities of his farfetched dreams: an angel for a wife, a blasphemy to the wild, scarred demon he was and always would be considered. Twice he refrained, as if by destroying the room he would be destroying Christine.

With a scowl of misery at the heartbreaking loss of his most treasured aspiration, Erik moved across the room to stand before the mirror. At first, the absence of his bold mask startled him; it had become to him a fifth appendage.

The mask of normalcy he had fashioned to cover the twisted wreckage of his face blended into his skin well enough, though the wax-like material was flimsy and required careful application and removal to prevent tears, and he recognized the need to make more of the same. The paste he had used for the half mask worked well enough, and the facial hair applied to his own skin, at those parts unscarred, matched the long wig. He removed the pince-nez with their cobalt lenses, noting how there the demarcation of the mask was upraised and evident around the hollow of his eyes, the drooping skin of his lower right eyelid too fragile to use the paste near it and to disguise with any other method than the dark lenses.

He replaced the lenses lower on his nose so that he could peer over the top of them and not see the world as blue-tinged. That was the chief drawback of his need to wear the pince-nez – seeing Christine dimly and in such falsified color that drained rosy hues from porcelain skin, and the copper and red tints from her lush, dark curls… never allowing him to witness her true, natural beauty.

But his eyes were regrettably unique, changeable in color, and sure to be a dead giveaway.

Grimly he continued his studied perusal in the reflective glass. The waist coat and frock coat were more colorful than what he would normally wear, Bohemian in style, as was his entire appearance. With the lower change of pitch to his voice, it was, overall, a worthy disguise.

Satisfied, he moved toward the adjoining door and opened it into another chamber, diverse in every aspect, as if walking from the light, mystical fantasy of day into the encroaching shroud of night.

This master bedchamber contained heavy black oak furnishings, the huge four-poster designed for his height wreathed in black velvet bed curtains, with hues of crimson, black, silver and grey all around. An array of masks sat on a table near his wardrobe, which was stuffed with ordinary wear and costumes alike. Skulls of silver were carved atop the bedposts, along the hearth, and carved as handles of the wardrobe. Much like his bedchamber in the lair, though this one contained no coffin, and he moved toward the huge leather-bound trunk sitting at the foot of the bed. There, he retrieved what he thought he might need, then studied the bed curtains with a practiced eye and retrieved the yards of ebony velvet from their rungs.

Recalling mention of the letter, he went to his library to collect the missive, noting no return address, and stuffed it into his coat pocket. After further consideration, he jotted off a quick note to Madame Giry, letting her know that Christine had been located and was well. Before he could change his mind, he wrote to send any correspondence to the chateau, sealed the letter, and left it in the silver tray to be posted. With nothing more to be done there, he collected his belongings and returned to Cesar.

Within the hour, he was ensconced back in his temporary hovel and had just finished hanging the last of the black velvet bed curtains, obscuring the daylight coming through the panes of the transom window, when a knock came softly at the door.

He tensed and stepped down off the chair, unsurprised and more than a little certain of his unsolicited visitor by the wary knock alone. With a swift glance into a hand mirror to assure all was in order, he adjusted his pince-nez, clamping them higher up the bridge of his false nose, and cracked open the door.

Christine stood there, her huge dark eyes shining with a nervous kind of hope, a tentative smile on her delicate features. The wild mass of her ringlets was pinned back in the customary manner, above her ears, the rounded tips of which stuck out adorably the slightest bit from her head, elfin like, the abundance of her locks hanging down her back and nearly to her waist. Even cast in blue, she was a coveted vision to behold.

"Good evening, monsieur…," she began in a halting manner, though her next words came out steady as if rehearsed. "I have another favor to ask of you, and require only a moment of your time."

He faltered a tense moment, his mind initiating a war with his immediate desire to be near her and arguing that, even disguised, any invitation to draw closer into his pretense could only develop into a colossal mistake. He had done so before, when in the angel she discovered a Phantom - and damn well nearly destroyed them both, _had_ destroyed his Opera House.

"I am rather busy."

"Please, monsieur..."

From beneath dark lashes, her eyes looked shyly up at him, glistening with hope.

Ignoring the caution to evade and withdraw, he curtly nodded and held wide the door for her to enter.

xXx

* * *

 **A/N: So, now you know for sure that the attic dweller it is Erik - those who weren't certain. I was going to draw it out a little bit longer, but there are so many other areas where I could do that. ;-)**


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: Thank you so much for the reviews - and welcome to my new readers! :) To my Russian guest reader - Thank you! -** **благодарю вас - (I hope this is right - I used google translate) ...** **And now -** **onward and upward!  
**

* * *

 **Chapter XI**

Christine hesitated a stunned breath, never having expected the mysterious, nighttime violinist to invite her into his room! She had thought they would have this conversation, as they had all others, outside on his doorstep. Those with a shred of sanity would consider it unwise for a lone, young woman to enter a man's domain – a _stranger's_ domain - and they would be correct in that caution. But in light of her request, such restraint seemed foolish, and she was more than a little curious as she walked past him and into his attic room…

A cave might be a more apt description, and for a brief flicker of unease, her mind took her back to a true cave made into a home, far beneath the earth.

The heavy black velvet that stretched across the single window had no partition to pull aside and allow daylight to shine into the room. It was no true drapery at all, but a permanent barrier nailed to the wall to shut out the outside. The room was marginally larger than her own and contained a ceiling that sloped sharply. Beneath its lowest part stood an iron bedstead covered in pillows he would need to stoop to lie upon. Crates, trunks, baskets and boxes cluttered the room lit only by a small gas lamp that sat on a small round table near one wall. To say the room was cozily lit was charitable; she could barely see as she walked a short few steps further into the dim chamber.

She turned to look at him once he closed the door, a bit startled that he would, and she wondered if he could read her apprehensive curiosity behind the opaque blue lenses he wore.

"Pardon the lighting, or lack thereof," he said, his voice low and deep with the hint of an accent she couldn't place. It sent shivers down her spine.

"It is rather dark," she agreed, hoping he would rectify the situation.

"The light, it is not kind to my eyes."

"I see. Is that why you wear those indoors?" Only after she questioned did she realize he might mistake her innocent query as rude.

He inclined his head in solemn affirmation. "A condition I suffer does not allow me to enjoy the daylight as I would wish."

"Forgive me." She looked away from him, feeling a little flustered by his curt and concise reply. "I had no wish to be rude."

He sighed, and she sensed a strange sort of despondency in the sound. "Why are you here, mademoiselle?"

"I…" Christine fidgeted in place, glancing toward the sole chair available in the room, its twin holding various baskets of knickknacks and bolts of cloth, likely the landlady's possessions, as most of the clutter here was surely the woman's, attics being a receptacle for storage. But he made no offer for her to sit and she remained standing. Of one thing, she must know and must know now –

"What is your name?"

Taken aback by her abrupt question, hinging on desperation, those impenetrable blue lenses looked her way a moment before he replied, "I am Monsieur de Ranier."

She nodded at the small disclosure into his life; for now, it was enough. Still, she hesitated, struggling to find words that had slipped off her tongue so easily the few times she rehearsed them alone in her room. The inspiration that sent her flying up the staircase to meet with him had not dimmed; but now that they'd come face to face and in his private quarters, no less, her dose of courage needed that same emphatic boost.

"I heard your music again last night," she began. "You play wonderfully well."

His lips flickered at the corners. "So you have said."

He expressed no humility, but in her experience, few performers did. Entertainers expected and welcomed praise from their audience – they thrived on it as a form of remuneration in their livelihood. Even her own dear papa expressed a knowing sort of pride when complimented on his playing. And Christine had fairly glowed with delight when congratulated on her performances. Knowing all that, this shouldn't be so difficult. Still, at the exhibition of this man's unshakeable confidence that bordered on artistic arrogance she wavered with what she would now say.

She knew well that such otherwise egotistical traits aided in producing the best teacher, in addition to commitment and dedication to the craft – and Monsieur Ranier appeared to possess all that was required. As gifted as he was, would he agree…?

"I wish for you to give me lessons," she softy blurted before she lost her nerve.

She wished, too, that she could see his eyes, for surely they would hint at his reaction. His facial expression gave nothing away; indeed, he seemed turned to stone.

"Lessons?" he said at last. "What lessons?"

"On the violin, of course."

He nodded once, curtly, as if to show he now understood, then shook his head in refusal. "I am no instructor of the violin."

"Perhaps not, but it is evident that you're highly accomplished."

"I am. But the answer is still no, mademoiselle."

"I can pay you," she said quickly. "I confess, I have no idea what the cost would be for such instruction, but perhaps…twenty-five francs per lesson?" She tried to settle on an amount that sounded fair.

"I cannot possibly teach you –"

"Fifty!" she cut him off, almost ready to beg if necessary.

"I require no payment."

"Oh, but – I cannot possibly receive lessons without paying for them."

Never had she met anyone willing to extend their services without receiving anything in return, other than one person. Her phantom teacher had never asked one centime of her; of course, for most of her life, she believed him to inhabit a celestial realm and an angel did not require material possessions. Since that startling day she came to know him as no more than a man, she soon realized how she'd taken advantage of his invaluable instruction – how she had taken _him_ for granted. Forever near when she needed him…always ignored when she did not. What had she given him in return for his tireless efforts but endless amounts of grief?

As they had a habit of doing, day and night, thoughts of him surfaced in her mind followed by questions. Was he well? Was he still angry? Had he returned to his lair and found her letter? Had _he_ been found…? She shook her head a little, hoping to dislodge the past and a distant situation she could do nothing about and concentrate on the more personal issue of the present, which was at least somewhat under her control…

If she could get this man to reconsider.

"Please, monsieur, name whatever price you deem suitable. I don't know much about these things."

"I recommend that you locate a shop specializing in musical paraphernalia and ask the management there if they can refer you to any worthy instructors in the area."

"Oh but –"

"I haven't the patience or the resources to teach you, mademoiselle." He moved to the door as he spoke and opened it. "I have no wish to be rude, but I have business to which I must attend."

"Oh…" Flustered to be put into the obvious position of unwelcome guest, Christine searched for words, but finding no appropriate phrase in the looming shadow of his formidable stance, she awkwardly approached the open door, squinting slightly at the gaslight flooding the corridor. She hadn't realized it was that bright; not until spending these last minutes in his dim abode. "Well then. Thank you for your time, Monsieur de Ranier. I'm sorry to have intruded."

He took a slight step back into shadow and stiffly nodded as she came abreast of him. "I wish you all the best in your endeavors, mademoiselle."

With little else to do, Christine nodded, keeping her head held high while attempting to numb herself to the sting of his rejection. Twice rejected by a man in as many weeks; never before that had she known such an experience. Though the first had ripped through her heart and torn into her soul...

Not wishing to return to her silent, empty room and dwell in pain-filled memories, she continued down the remaining flights of stairs to the cozy parlor in search of pleasant company.

x

Inside the spacious room that contained a horsehair sofa and three chairs near a cheery hearth dancing with flames, Mademoiselle Ledoux sat next to a dapper young gentleman with sleek black hair and trim mustache. The girl's aunt sat closer to the fire with her knitting. It was a simple room, with its bronze and gold pinstriped walls, the olive green furnishings not as grand or as comfortable as the rose-velvet scrolled sofas offered in the public chambers of the opera house, but the room emitted a certain charm and drew boarders to congregate there.

"Mademoiselle Daaé," the young woman beamed her way, "Please, come join us. We were just speaking of Paris."

Not for the first time, Christine regretted the slip of giving her real surname on her first day of arriving in Marseilles. If ever she found a need to relocate, she would be sure never to make the same mistake twice...

Tentatively, she approached, noting the newspaper that sat on the side table beside the man and recognizing it as one of the few in the city that related news outside its borders.

"Monsieur Laurent, Mademoiselle Daaé," the girl made introductions. "He has just moved to Marseille for the season."

"Please, call me Christine," she said to the girl. The man raised his brows and the aunt gave a disapproving huff. Christine's request, given only so the name Daaé wasn't used so frequently and possibly stir some recognition had a negative connotation she hadn't counted on. All three mistakenly thought her ill-timed remark addressed to him, a brazen move for an unwed young woman to be sure, perhaps for any woman. If Mademoiselle Ledoux's aunt thought her a hussy before, the elder woman's evaluation of Christine had just dipped to the level of streetwalker, not that Christine truly cared. Being a chorus girl had brought its own brand of undeserved censure from certain classes.

"Mademoiselle," the stranger said in a pleasant voice, his grey eyes kind. "It is a pleasure. Please, do join us."

Christine smiled her thanks that he hadn't called her by her given name and made matters worse. She took a seat in the chair cattycorner to the sofa where Monsieur Laurent and Mademoiselle Ledoux sat at each end, with two feet of distance between them.

"We were just discussing the museums in Paris," Mademoiselle Ledoux explained. "Alas, it is the epitome of all I have engaged in for social affairs. I always wanted to visit the Opera, as you have," she added wistfully to Christine.

Prickles of alarm raised the hair on her arms beneath her sleeves at the unfortunate turn of the conversation. While she definitely wanted news of what had happened there since she left, she had no desire to discuss it with others.

The man chuckled. "Opera never was in my range of interest," he said. "But give me a good burlesque show any night of the week and you'll see me there."

Christine smiled in her relief that he, too, was oblivious to the workings of the Paris Opera House, while the aunt gave another huffing snort of disapproval coupled with a stern glare over her knitting needles toward him. If Mademoiselle Ledoux hoped to receive this guest as a potential beau, Christine had a feeling the young woman was going to be sadly disappointed.

The conversation went on for several more minutes involving other Parisian points of interest and circling back to the Louvre.

"The latest exhibit did leave something to be desired – rather pedestrian, in my opinion," Monsieur Laurent criticized. "But it did bring in the crowds, which I suppose is the point of it all. Give me a good Renoir any day…Mademoiselle, if you wish to take the paper, feel free to do so."

Christine snapped her fixed attention from distractedly gazing at the tiny, angled newsprint she couldn't read from this distance. "I'm sorry – what?"

"I noticed your interest in the newspaper. I have finished with it. You may take it, if you wish. There is an article on news from Paris you may find interesting. I do believe they even mention the opera."

Christine felt her face flush with self-conscious warmth. "Yes, please, thank you."

He plucked it from the table, reaching over to hand the newspaper to her. She could scarcely wait to hurry to her room and scavenge through its pages.

"I think I should retire. I must hunt through the city for a music shoppe tomorrow."

"You're not partaking of supper then?" Mademoiselle Ledoux asked.

"Not tonight, no. I had a rather filling lunch at the café." Besides the eclair, she had invested in a small round loaf of bread. She could not live on sweets, after all, and the meals at the boarding house left much to be desired.

"I happen to know of a music store a short distance from here," Monsieur Laurent spoke. I can take you there tomorrow morning, if you like. This is not my first visit to Marseille; I am well acquainted with the city."

Surprised by his offer, but wary to accept it from a perfect stranger, Christine fumbled with a response. "I'm not sure, but…" She looked toward Mademoiselle Ledoux. "Would you like to come as well? It might be fun to get out in the fresh air and see something of the city."

The girl's eyes sparkled with delight at the prospect. "It does sound lovely."

"After you conduct your business at the music store, we could take luncheon at a delightful café I know of in the vicinity," Monsieur Laurent added gallantly.

Madame Ledoux turned to her aunt. "Oh, may I, Aunt Agatha?"

The woman frowned, seeming about to refuse but nodded. "I believe I feel well enough to take an hour away for the proceedings."

"Yes - of course," the man stumbled over his words, clearly not expecting a chaperone, but the idea of Aunt Agatha along relieved Christine. And Mademoiselle Ledoux had proven to be pleasant company.

"Splendid," Christine enthused. "Then I shall see all of you tomorrow."

"Until tomorrow," Monsieur Laurent agreed, and Mademoiselle Ledoux nodded her approval.

Christine again thanked him for the paper and hurried to her room to scan through its contents. On page four, she found what she'd been seeking:

 _The city-wide hunt for the villain known as the Phantom of the Opera continues…_

Her heart lurched in a strange mix of anxiety that they were still searching and relief that he had not yet been caught.

A short recap of that tragic night followed, along with the assumption that he drowned in the Seine when the gendarmes found a body there two days later. Christine held her breath as she nervously read, letting the trapped air out softly as the article went on to state that the victim had been identified as S. Todd, a barber from London whose throat had been cut - not the alleged Opera Ghost that haunted the theatre in Paris.

According to the article, the hunt for the Phantom was still on.

Not for the first time, she offered a prayer heavenward that those who sought his death would never find him.

Christine lowered the paper, her melancholy eyes going to the window and what she could see of the horizon beyond and the span of sea that traveled so far, its end could not be realized. Perhaps, even now, he was traveling its incalculable distance to the other side…far, far away from her.

xXx

"Maman! Maman!"

Madame Giry nearly dropped the tea kettle at her daughter's rambunctious entrance into their flat. Seconds later, the door to the small kitchen swung open.

"Madame Salinger gave these to me as I came in – she said they were delivered this morning. Two letters addressed to you! And one I'm sure must be from Christine!"

Madame Giry quickly wiped her hands on a dishtowel and took the letters from Meg's hand, first breaking open the one with the flowery script.

Relief made her shoulders slightly droop from their usual rigid stance. "Christine is well," she reported to her excited daughter, "and living in Marseille. She has secured work at one of many shoppes there and bids us not to worry. She left a message for you."

"For me?" Meg squealed like she had as a child the first time she was picked for the chorus. Madame delivered the missive into Meg's eager hands and slipped into the parlor to open the next letter.

 _Madame Giry,_

 _I write to inform you that I have found Christine in Marseille. Cease to worry about the girl; the Angel of Music has her under his wing, though she has no knowledge of it, nor will she. I will not repeat past mistakes; on this you have my word. If you must reach me, I have enclosed an address where you may send a note._

 _Erik de Ranier_

Short, pithy and to the point – but a consideration offered that he had freely given and never would have done in the past.

So, they were both in Marseille. What puzzled her was that he wrote of not repeating past mistakes, and though she hoped that meant to tell Christine how he truly felt about her, by his words, he planned another escapade as the Ghost. Surely his greatest mistake - to so deceive the girl and masquerade as no more than a phantom!

Quickly closing the letter, she stuffed it in between the pages of a book on her desk, not wishing to rouse Meg's curiosity should she enter the room. A twinge of remorse made Madame Giry consider her next course of action. She never agreed to Nadir Kahn's ploy to keep Erik and Christine separated; neither had she told Christine Erik's whereabouts when the girl asked if she knew them. In her own meddlesome way, she had aided to keep the two apart. Perhaps had she spoken the truth then, when it mattered, Christine would be here now, and she could have met with her teacher under Madame's supervision. All the misunderstandings of their bizarre past could have been excavated to salvage what good remained, then permanently laid to rest, and let the chips of the future fall where they may.

But no, instead, Christine struggled to make a living in another city, with her Ghost again lurking unseen to shadow her... Madame worried that history might repeat itself and all because of her decision to remain silent.

Silence brought no more than pain; she had learned that lesson well. In confiding to the Vicomte Christine's whereabouts, when deep down she'd known her Angel would never harm her, Madame bore her own share of guilt for what led to the disaster of that night. She would not bear the blame for this as well.

Resolved to correct her mistake, she sat down at her desk and began to write.

xXx

Once the Phantom had let his Angel go – _told_ her to go – he struggled with the desire to call her back to him. Daily, he wrestled with the need, convincing himself that after the carnage he unleashed on Paris, destroying both his and her dreams as a result, this forced absence was the only way to co-exist. To watch over her from afar and under the cloak of invisibility, do all he could to establish what aspiration for this new life she struggled to whittle out of what flotsam remained...

Though that she no longer wished to sing disturbed him.

He told himself that this mode of keeping distance was for the greater good, when the following day he shadowed her and three boarders who accompanied her to the music store, and watched her through the plate glass window from his position across the street.

He told himself this mode of invisibility was the best way, the _only_ way, when he lingered outside the dining room, in the shadows, as the little party took supper, the detestable meal in no way infringing on their lighthearted rapport.

He told himself the same when the pesky Laurent sat near Christine on the sofa in the parlor on the third evening and engaged in droll conversation that made Christine giggle in a heart-tugging way that Erik once only dreamed of doing. No, his specialty was in making her weep, and clenching his hands into tight fists repeatedly in spasmodic frustration, he forced himself to cease shadowing the merrymakers and took the stairs to his dark and empty attic room.

The fourth afternoon while he paced the floor from wall to cluttered wall, wincing at every random misplaced chord and scowling at the planks beneath his feet with how woefully substandard the untalented buffoon was at the craft, he gritted the words in his mind – _it's for the damned best._ But the moment the ratchety music at last blessedly ceased to whine across victimized strings, he found himself lurking on the outside stoop of his door, glaring at the landing below and what he could see of the door she had left ajar, waiting what seemed an interminable amount of time for it to swing fully open and reveal the pair. When it did, his heart lurched upon sight of her. She seemed flustered and uneasy, attempting to keep distance from her guest as he exited. She actually retreated a step when the ill-kempt man with graying hair grabbed up her hand and kissed the back of it.

 _How dare he!_

"Next time, perhaps, Mademoiselle, you would care to take your lesson at my shop? I have a room upstairs that is more private. We will not be disturbed, nor risk disturbing others."

The fiend's eyes rested at her cleavage as he straightened from bowing over her hand, and though the Phantom could not hear Christine's meek response, he had endured enough.

The dastardly caller turned at the slow pound of each approaching step Erik made no attempt to muffle. He glimpsed a glint of welcome relief in Christine's eyes before she cast them to the floor.

"I...er – yes." The pitiful excuse for an instructor set his hat upon his head. "Until your next lesson, Mademoiselle, I bid you adieu."

He awkwardly scampered down the stairs on slightly bowed legs, reminding Erik of a frightened toad, and he couldn't refrain from a sardonic twist of a satisfied smile. He stepped down the remaining stairs with purpose and walked directly to her door. She lifted her eyes to his in shocked question.

He studied her head to hem in a swift, sweeping glance, then, careful to speak in a low tone with a flair of the accent of Persia, he curtly announced, "Come to my room at noon tomorrow. Bring your violin with you." He retraced his steps to the first stair when he heard her voice uncertainly call out behind him.

"Monsieur?"

He turned slightly aside, looking over his shoulder. Noting her curious surprise, he addressed her unasked question, "I assume it is still your wish to be taught to play the violin? Unless you prefer to take instruction from a fool unworthy to classify himself as a musician. My ears are still bleeding from the raucous noise he made."

"Yes, of course. I mean no." She cleared her throat. "I'll be there."

He nodded once, never having doubted it for a moment.

For the best? Hardly. Yet Erik was resolved to help her, as only he could. This time would be different, as he had vowed to Madame Giry in his letter. He would guard against this becoming another monstrous mistake…

Never would he divulge his true identity. Never would Christine see his true face. And never would he bare his soul to her again.

* * *

 **A/N: Well, at least he's got good intentions where her well-being is concerned – yes? ;-) Hope you guys liked the chapter!**


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: Thank you so much for the continued interest, the reviews - and welcome to my new readers! :)  
**

 **And now …**

* * *

 **Chapter XII**

Exactly one minute before noon the following day, Christine clutched her Papa's violin case in one damp hand, a small parcel in the other, and nervously ascended the stairs to Monsieur de Ranier's attic room.

During Monsieur Dumfries' rather uninspiring lesson, the majority of which he monopolized in a solo performance with little instruction given, she had heard the wood above her head creak rapidly to and fro, from one end to the other, as if her attic dweller paced in a burst of frenzied impatience. The moment she escorted Monsieur Dumfries out the door, she had been more than a little surprised by Monsieur de Ranier's dramatic appearance and abrupt offer – almost a command – to teach her.

It was what she originally wanted so Christine saw no reason to refuse, despite his rather forceful approach and seeming distaste at the idea. (Why did he keep offering to help if his heart wasn't in his words?) Secretly, she had been relieved to see him descend the stairs even with his dour attitude. By his terse remark he had been annoyed by Monsieur Dumfries' attempt at playing Bach, and who could blame him? She, too, had winced when strings squeaked in notes that should have ascended. The man had been a bit overzealous in his attempts to make their hour together into more than a simple violin lesson, and his parting insistence that it would be more advantageous if she were to visit the room above his shoppe for their next tutorial left little to the imagination of what _advantages_ he hoped to gain.

Perhaps, she was a bit naïve, even reckless, to have invited the manager of the music store into her room to teach her; perhaps she was also foolish to visit Monsieur de Ranier's private room to take instruction from him. Both men were no more than strangers to her, yet one glaring difference set them apart:

Though she had little experience to base such feelings on, she trusted Monsieur de Ranier.

As Christine paused with her hand lifted to knock on his door, she only hoped that trust would not prove to be her misfortune...

She had once trusted an Angel too.

Refusing to dwell on memories that only brought a pang of hopeless melancholy, Christine gave a frustrated little shake of her head and knocked firmly upon the scarred wood.

The seconds ticked past. Nervously she shifted from one foot to the other. Just when she had begun to believe he would not answer and had changed his mind, the door suddenly clicked open a fraction to reveal one dark blue oval lens, then widened to let her enter.

"Mademoiselle, you are punctual," he said, clearly pleased.

"Monsieur," she said with a diffident little nod and smile. "I always try to be."

Punctuality was a trait that had long been ingrained in her character during her time at the Opera House, especially by her strict Angel, who never condoned tardiness, accidental or otherwise. Yet any vague reply to such training was lost as the most delightful aroma assailed her senses, a hint of which she'd discerned when she left her room but thought it came from downstairs or outdoors. The spicy fragrance of simmering beef and onion…

She inhaled deeply and briefly let her eyes fall shut, almost in a rapture. When was the last time she had enjoyed a whiff of, much less ingested, a decent meal? Not since Paris, surely…

The Phantom observed her enthralled response, a smile flickering at the corners of his mouth beneath his flesh-colored mask. "Please, take a seat," he instructed, motioning to the chair beneath the covered window. Atop a platform of three stacked crates to one side of her, a trio of candles in a candelabra he had strategically placed there cast light upon her form as she obeyed. He noticed the long and subtle inhalations she took, watching her chest rise and fall with each breath.

Nodding to himself in satisfaction, he turned and moved toward the small pot that stood suspended on an iron bracket over the open flame of a kerosene lamp, its glass chimney sitting off to one side. A Bunsen burner would have been a far more worthy addition, certainly cooking his meals faster, but he had left his prize of a night's thievery in Paris, in his lair. Retrieving a chipped bowl of china, one of many castoffs he'd found within the crates stored away and forgotten, he dipped one ladle full of the French Onion soup into the shallow interior, all it would hold.

He had observed her childish eating habits this entire week, spending coins on pastries and little else, as a form of daily sustenance. The sole time he watched from outside the dining room, where he had stood in shadow, he noticed she had pushed the food around on her plate, pecking at it like a bird, which was so unlike her; and though at a glance he could see the provision of paltry offerings were indeed intolerable, she could not subsist on sweets alone.

Living for over two decades in his subterranean dwelling, with no one to care for his needs, the Phantom had been forced to fend for himself and learn what was necessary to survive. At first, when he was a boy, the young Madame Giry had brought parcels for him of what could be smuggled out of the Opera House, on those rare days she could get away without being missed; but in the preparation of meals he had needed to teach himself everything. As a man, he had often gone without food in his obsessive desire to compose, not wishing to bother to take the time for cookery, shunning sleep as well; but he knew when to surrender to his body's relentless requirement for nourishment as well as slumber.

Living at the dormitory of the Opera House, Christine had all meals provided for her, basically instructed what to eat with little choice given, and clearly she still must be taught the correct way to care for herself, as a woman now alone. In some matters she still thought like a child, and it was for this reason Erik had donned cloak and hat and visited the market early that morning, as soon as the merchants opened their stalls and shoppes. Despite his elaborate disguise, he had been tense with the fear of discovery: not of being a murderer but a monster, though little disparity existed between the two. But no one had looked at his face twice, and with a new ease of relief he had returned with his purchases, deciding to forfeit the errand boy's services and regularly take the task upon himself, even if the application of mask, stage makeup, and hairpieces did take the better part of an hour. All of it now necessary, what with the frequent visits of his guest.

Christine had ventured into a new order of life, and so, perhaps, should he.

He had never asked for nor wanted an existence of solitude, hidden away beneath the earth. At one point, it had been vital to hide; later, when the danger passed, it became convenient and preferred. His single-handed destruction of the Opera House changed all that. Perhaps, he too, could find a second chance for a life in Marseille…

She looked up in surprise when he approached and stopped before her, extending the bowl of soup and a spoon he had filched in the dining room during one of his nightly forays to gain what was needed. Staples he had removed from the kitchen and little else. He reasoned it was owed him, as he had no desire to engage in the distasteful commodity to take his meals in the populated dining room; nor did he have the stomach for it. He paid an exorbitant sum to keep his home here, more than it was worth, as well as to make up the remainder of the ₣50 charged each month for Christine's room. He felt no shred of remorse in his light-fingered and oft-persuasive if underhanded methods to acquire anything that was needed...

The former tenant of her room had been quite receptive to the lure of ₣100 to leave with all immediacy, a few weeks early, and the landlady had not cared one whit where the money for rent came from, as long as it found its way into her greedy hand.

Christine stared into the bowl then up at him in confusion. "For _me_? Oh, but I can't…"

"You have already had luncheon?" he asked, doubting she'd even partaken of breakfast.

"Well, no, but you've done so much already! You repaired Papa's violin and have offered to give me lessons without payment. I can't take your food too."

His lips twitched in what was almost a smile. "It is only a bowl of soup, mademoiselle. At day's end I will have to dispose of all that remains, and I would prefer it not spoil and go to waste. Nor would I wish you to delay the lesson by swooning from fatigue due to lack of nourishment."

She looked down in embarrassment at his mildly teasing rejoinder and licked her bottom lip in anticipation, the sight of which sent a jolt through him as quite suddenly he recalled the feel of her soft mouth pressed against his. Swiftly he averted his eyes to the bowl he held and they both stared at. She hesitated a few seconds longer before taking it from his hands.

"Thank you. Are you not going to eat as well?"

"I did so before you arrived."

"Oh." As if just recalling something, she set the bowl in the lap of her skirts and reached down for the parcel on top of her violin case, handing it up to him. "Then perhaps you would care for some dessert? Please, accept this as a token of my appreciation."

A lump rose to his throat, yet he managed a steady voice. "It is not necessary to spend your money on me, mademoiselle."

"It is only a pastry, monsieur," she countered with a twinkle in her eye, using his words against him. She sighed. "I'm taking so much from you already. Please, allow me to give something in return."

Madame Giry had supplied items to satisfy his needs, so that he did not perish, but never had anyone given him a gift because they _wanted_ to - _twice_ -given, and he remembered a similar parcel he'd found days ago at his doorstep, followed by the swift duck of a curly head behind the wall.

His heart clutched at the sweet gesture, he hardly knew what to say, and as he took the proffered sack, he blinked away the spot of moisture that clouded his eyes. He was not particularly fond of the overly sweet chocolate éclairs, but he would bloody well learn to favor their taste for her sake.

"They ran out of éclairs," she said in apology as if she'd heard his thoughts, "but I found the cinnamon cakes to be tasty, if not as sweet."

His lips turned up in the twist of a grin. "In truth, I prefer them."

"Oh!" Her eyes lit up then lowered to his mouth. A strange, almost hesitant expression touched her features before she again looked up, her smile brighter. "Well then, that's splendid!"

Erik drifted a few steps back into the gloomier part of his chamber, wishing he could remove the blasted pince-nez so as to see her illuminated in golden candlelight and not always tinged in blue, as he must now forever suffer. Though in any color of the spectrum her beauty was exceptional.

He watched the ascent of the spoon to her mouth twice, the sole spoon they now both had shared in her possession, suggesting a feeling almost intimate. Before sliding the utensil between rosy lips, each time she pursed them in a slight pucker and lightly blew to cool the liquid. The mundane act ignited into something so innocently sensual, it heated his blood to a dangerous level, reminding him of a sacrificial kiss to tame a beast. Even now, he could taste her tears mingled with his own and feel their hearts beat in a fury…

Recognizing that his mind had once more strayed down a path no longer viable, _explicitly forbidden **,**_ he spun on his heel and took up his violin in preparation for their first lesson.

How quickly he had forgotten what being in close quarters with this woman did to him! Only Christine had been able to reach him on so many unexplored plateaus, the present of which could prove an embarrassment if he allowed his gaze to linger. Distance must be maintained; it was the only way to endure these accursed lessons he had undertaken and not give away the masquerade. She did not want him, did not even give _him_ the pastries. Her kindness had been for the stranger he presented - _Monsieur de Ranier_. And in that knowledge he must step into and firmly assume the role.

x

Unaccustomed to being openly stared at while she dined, Christine tried to ignore the monsieur's bold scrutiny as she indulged in the first few spoonfuls of the delicious soup, not remembering when she'd last eaten a full meal, her appetite having suffered of late. She knew relief when at last he turned away, though his movements were brusque and she wondered what had upset him. It wasn't so much that he made her nervous, not really, but the impersonal ovals of blue glass that shielded his eyes regrettably also masked their expression. She wished she could see beyond the lenses, to the soul of the man, for she knew, as Papa once told her, the eyes were the window into it. Yet she understood his dilemma of the need to elude daylight... though certainly the room seemed dark enough to warrant their removal.

Covertly she watched as he lifted his violin from its case and gently bounced the bow upon the strings then plucked them, testing for sound, while twisting pegs to achieve the correct amount of tension for each note desired.

What possessed her, she had no clue, but Christine suddenly found herself blurting, "Would you play for me the song you play each night?"

He looked in her direction, silent and unresponsive. The image of two ovals of opaque glass turned upon her above a grim mouth almost gave her pause to reconsider her rash request.

"Please," she phrased her words carefully, hoping he wouldn't think her impertinent or too demanding. "I should like to watch you play before we begin the lesson. It might help me to study your form."

After another tense moment, he inclined his head in a deep, gracious nod, stood, and lifted the violin to his shoulder, resting his chin against the bottom curve. The rich wood gleamed with a reddish-golden hue, even in shadow. The _f_ -holes were long and elongated, more so than Papa's, as was the body of the instrument. The scroll curved inward as an intricate coil, with no swirls of décor that engraved the wood like the one she had, his violin elegant in its simplicity. Even at a distant glance she sensed that his instrument was of higher quality, perhaps an original carved by the masters of old…

And then he brought his bow in a gentle slide along the strings, and she was beguiled into a world of his making.

Through walls and floors, the violin remained a distant, haunting refrain. But with nothing to impede as a barrier to its strength, its power was potent, the clear, rich tone lingering in her ears and pulling at her heart, until Christine felt the evocative music had washed into her skin and flowed inside her veins. Or maybe it was the talent of the virtuoso that made her breaths come more swiftly and the reverberations so deeply felt.

She watched his pale hands, his fingers confident, long and limber, as they depressed strings and moved the bow. A musician's hands, striking a sense of the familiar... though she had seen so little of _his_ hands, always encased in black gloves, until that one last, tragic night…

"It's so beautiful…," she said when he stopped after one stanza. She swallowed back a lump of emotion birthed by both the music and the memory, "…but somehow, so sad. Are there words?"

"There are, but they are not written in the language of France."

"Oh…" A strange explanation, but she prodded further. "Do you know them?"

She, too, seemed surprised by her soft, abrupt question. What was she asking? For him to _sing_? She didn't even know if he _could_ sing, and surely to ask if he did and could would be infringing on his generosity.

"I know the translation," he said after a long pause, and before she could reply, again he lifted the violin to his shoulder and his bow to the strings.

 _._

 _Bonne soirée, B_ _onne nuit,  
With roses covered,  
With cloves adorned,  
Slip under the cover.  
Tomorrow morning, if God wills,  
you will wake once again._

 _._

He did not sing the words, but adjusted his voice so that his timbre was deep and powerful enough to be heard in recitation over the music, yet strikingly gentle to suit such lyrics.

A shudder traveled down the length of Christine's spine. Almost without being aware she did so, she set her empty bowl aside. The mild accent was divergent, but the tone of his voice, its quality of timbre bred a familiarity she had heard him display before. And yet…often when he spoke at normal volume, there was a variance there.

She stared intently at his face – now she the bold one to scrutinize - and at the dark mustache and thin stripe of hair on his chin...the slope of nose, _not_ aristocratically straight but a tad longer with a small bump high at its bridge that the pince-nez did not hide, the thick cloud of reddish-brown curls that brushed his shoulder and past it as he moved in graceful rhythm…

She relaxed her shoulders in a strange blend of discouragement and relief then lowered her gaze to his form. Tall. Lean. Powerful. Commanding – and again a sense of the familiar elevated her breaths. Today, his mode of clothing was more provincial and less bohemian in style, his frock coat and trousers black, his waistcoat a shimmering plum, the ascot above it a dark shade of gold. Different... and yet, equivalent, he presented a paradox of thought and feeling she had tried for weeks to bury. He opened his mouth and a second time his rich, deep voice poured forth over the notes, not in song but in spoken words -

 _._

 _ _Bonne soirée, B_ _onne nuit,_  
By angels watched,  
Who show you in your dream  
the Christ-child's tree.  
Sleep now blissfully and sweetly,  
see the paradise in your dream._

.

By angels watched…In your dream…

Singing so sweetly in sleep…

Angel…

"Mademoiselle? Are you unwell?"

Christine broke from her trance, noting how intently she still stared at him. With difficulty, she shook herself from memories that haunted and silently scolded herself that she was nothing more than a silly goose. He was certainly no doppelganger, as Meg once whispered to her of those ghosts who were but a shadow of another in appearance - this man did not even _look_ like her Angel. Nor was he a ghost. True, he shared a few similarities – his height and build, his smile, his hands, the tone and rich quality of his voice – but Monsieur de Ranier was most certainly his own person. He was not her old teacher, he was her new one.

To save them both unnecessary embarrassment, she must remember that, remember that her old teacher had abandoned her and wanted nothing more to do with her. It was time to forge a new life and a new path, God help her.

She brushed away a tear and forced a smile that came tremulous. "It is a lullaby then?"

"Intended as such, but there has been speculation it is more."

"Oh?" Sensing an intriguing story and desperate to still all despondent thought, she asked brightly, "Do you by chance know it? I'd love to hear…"

For a time Christine didn't think he would answer. He took a seat in the chair a few feet across from her in the shadows. Stretching out long legs in a manner of casual elegance, he rested his violin on his lap, casting his gaze upon the varnished wood.

"The composer was once a choral director who fell in love with one of his singers," he began, his voice quiet and low. "They shared a bond of music and would take long walks alone together, her hand held in his, at which time she would sing a unique song, especially for him. Complications arose that tested their love and they were soon parted, each going their separate ways…" He exhaled a weary breath, his fingers idly stroking the glossy wood of his violin. "Years later, he saw her from afar and knew his deep love had endured. But she had married another and expected a child. This lullaby was the composer's gift to her on the birth of her infant, and in the melody, as tribute, he had woven in the gift of her song. She, too, must have held him dear, for upon the child's birth, she gave her son his name…"

During his solemn recounting warm moisture rained heedlessly down her cheeks, and at its bittersweet end, a harsh sob escaped her throat as she buried her face in her hands.

The Phantom swiftly looked up from his violin in concerned shock to hear her great distress. She sat hunched over, her shoulders shaking, looking so fragile and lost. Remorseful that he had brought Christine to tears, never his intent but so often his fate, he struggled with what should be done next.

She had always enjoyed stories spoken to her from beyond a chapel wall, but perhaps he should not have told her this particular one. He could not help but note its beginning bore a resemblance to their own tragic tale, the difference being that his love had been unrequited. Yet with the loss of all she'd held dear at the opera, surely she now drew comparisons. And though she _deserved_ to feel the sting after her careless betrayal of him and their music, he found it difficult to gain any satisfaction from her tears. Indeed, he felt as miserable as she.

When her soft weeping ebbed, he set his Stradivarius aside and rose from the chair. Each step forward into her pool of candlelight came forced and uneasy. He withdrew a black silk handkerchief from his coat and held it down to her.

"Mademoiselle," he urged, barely catching himself before speaking her name.

Her face lifted, and his heart was struck anew to see the wet shine of her cheeks and the sorrow drowning her haunted, dark eyes. Her lashes were clumped, her face splotched with pink, and her nose was running. She had never appeared so vulnerable, so childlike, and he battled the strong urge to kneel at her feet, take her in his arms and hush away her every fear.

She took the handkerchief, their fingers brushing with the contact. A spark of awareness traveled up to his elbow, and she gasped. He snatched his hand away and with a curt nod, retreated a step, then turned on his heel to again seek the safety of his chair, reclaiming his instrument.

He watched as she dabbed at her eyes, cheeks and nose, her head bowed in shame.

"I'm so sorry…" she whispered. "You must think me terribly foolish, and I suppose I am. I'm not really sure what came over me…" She looked away and to the right, toward the veiled part of the attic chamber that stretched further beyond the shadows to cover her own room, his floor which was her ceiling, the depth of the walls not realized at this distance.

Though seconds ago he told himself her brief dip into the pool of misery was well-justified, he could not bear to hear her self-ridicule.

"Perhaps, if you are feeling unwell, we should postpone the lesson."

"Oh, no!" She whipped her head around, her eyes seeking him out in the gloom. "I would like to continue. Please, monsieur, pay me no heed. It has been a rather difficult month and I suppose it all crept up on me, what with hearing the terribly sad and yet somehow _hopeful_ message of that song…"

He yearned for her to continue, to play voyeur to her thoughts and perhaps, at last see into her heart. At the same time, he wished her to forever remain silent about the past, uncertain he would be able to bear it if her heartache was for that insufferable boy. She had chosen to flee from her spurned lover as well, that much was true; but her choice to go failed to mean she might not now be regretting her hasty decision, and he had no desire to hear her pine for the Vicomte.

"I am ready to begin whenever you are," she said with a courageous lift of her chin and a smile that trembled. Quietly she sniffled, blotting the remnant of tears from her face.

He nodded in approval, relieved her lapse into melancholy was concluded. "First, you must learn the preliminaries to care for and understand your instrument. Do you know how to tune the strings? Ah, I thought not. Observe what I do and then do likewise with your violin."

He shifted his violin in his hands, plucking a string, as before, and adjusting a peg that no longer needed it. She had been blessed with clear perception of a musical ear, easily able to discern a note and sing it back when instructed, and he knew this stage of preparation would not be difficult for her to manage.

"I can't see you well over there." She squeezed his now crumpled handkerchief in her lap before letting go of it. "Can you come closer?"

Icy dread chilled his blood before he recalled the elaborate disguise, and how his housekeeper had seen him face-to-face on more occasions than Christine, though seldom, yet had not recognized him.

Slowly he stood and dragged his chair closer, placing it right at the outside edge of the ring of candlelight, within a few feet of her. Once he reclaimed his seat, the golden glow brought his hands and the violin into clear focus, leaving his face above the jawline dimmed.

"Will this suffice?" he asked, cursing the tremor in his voice.

"Yes, thank you, that is much better." Her smile was wide. "I am ready to begin."

xXx

* * *

 **A/N: The composer's tragic story of a love lost that Erik told is true – a golden nugget I found during my research that I had to incorporate into this tale. :) The name of the song is** ** _Wiegenlied_** **, otherwise known as the** ** _Cradle Song_** **or** ** _Brahm's Lullaby_**


End file.
